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MEMOIR, 



LETTERS, AND POEMS 



C 



BERNAED BARTON. 



EDITED 



BY HIS DAUGHTER. 



PHILADELPHIA : 

LINDSAY AND BLAKISTON. 

1850. 



STEUF. OTYPED BY J. FAOAN. 



PRINTED BY C. SHEKMAN, 



MR. AND MRS. SHAWE, 

OF 

KESGRAVE HALL, SUFFOLK, 
THE FRIENDS OF HER DEAR FATHER, 

SEjjfs atttle aSooft is JBclrfcateTl, 

WITH GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE REGARD, 
BY 

THE EDITOR. 

( iii ) 



PREFACE. 



In compiling the present little volume, it has been 
the wish of the Editor in some measure to carry out 
her dearest Father's favourite but unfulfilled design 
of an autobiography. It is with reference to this 
that both the Poems and Letters have been selected ; 
and she begs to return her grateful thanks to the 
Publishers of his respective volumes, Messrs. Hatch- 
ard, Parker, Baldwin, Holdsworth, and Boys, for 
the readiness with which they have granted her the 
freedom of selecting what seemed most desirable ; — 
to Mr. Orr, for the kindness which has permitted her 
to avail herself of his purchased right in some of the 
Poems : — and to Messrs. Virtue, for the liberality with 
which she has been allowed to glean so largely from 
his last published volume, " The Household Verses." * 



* It is due to the Publishers of this last-named work to state, that 

the following Poems from its pages will be found in the present 

volume : — Sonnet to a Friend never yet seen, but corresponded with 

for above twenty years. To the Memory of Elizabeth Hodgkin. 

1"-- (V) 



VI PREFACE. 

It has been deemed allowable to give tlie Poems that 
general revision which they might have undergone 
from their Author, had he lived to re-publish them ; 
a need of revision and condensation being evident to 
the Editor herself, and to some others, of whose ad- 
vice and assistance she has not hesitated to avail 
herself. 

The Ivy, — The Valley of Fern, — Stanzas written 
in the grounds of Martin Cole, — and some others, are 
given quite unaltered ; being already so well known 
and liked by many persons in their original shape. 
In some instances the moral has been retrenched 
from the story, or the reflections from the scene that 
originated them, when those reflections and moral 
were obvious enough to suggest themselves, or were 
repeated in some better form elsewhere ; as in the 
case of Great Bealings Churchyard, Bethesda, &c. 

The great bulk of the Poems is religious ; but 



Selborne, a f^onnet. The Shunammite Woman. Memorial of John 
Scott. To the B. B. Schooner, on seeinjr her sail down the Dchcn 
for Liverpool. Sonnet to the Sister of an old Schoolfellow. Trip- 
lets for Truth's Sake. A Tiiought. Verses, suggested by a very 
curious Old Room at the Tankard, Ii>swich. Faith, Hope, and 
Charity. Sonnets written at Burstal. John Evelyn. Orford Castle. 
The Departed. On a Drawing of Norwich Market-place, by Cot- 
man, taken in 1R)7. To the Deben. To a very young Housewife. 



PREFACE. Vll 

there are not wanting those of a lighter character, 
which will be found to be the wholesome relaxation 
of a pure, good, and essentially religious mind. 
These may succeed each other as gracefully and 
beneficently as April sunshine and showers over the 
meadow. So indeed such moods followed in his 
own mind, and were so revealed in his domestic in- 
tercourse. 



The Letters are none of them of a very distant 
date; few early ones having been preserved, and 
where preserved, possessing less interest than those 
of a later date. They have been chosen, so far as it 
was possible, from various correspondents, and are 
arranged, for brevity's sake, not in exact chron,olo- 
gical order as regards all the correspondents, but only 
as regards each. They are not connected by Memoir, 
because few of them are found to relate to the pass- 
ino- events of life, but rather contain recollections of 
that which is already past ; or, tell in his own way, 
what he thought and felt on subjects of the greatest 
interest to him. They are of various moods, on 
various subjects, but, like the Poems, at one with 
each other in this, they always reveal a heart which, 
though often playful and humorous, like Words- 
worth's good old Matthew ; like him, too, could never 
once be said to "go astray." 



VIU PR EFAC E. 

The Editor owes especial thanks to such of her 
dearest Father's correspondents, who, by kindly 
placing his letters at her disposal, have in great mea- 
sure supplied to her the material by -which she has 
been enabled to lay before her readers his own 
opinions in his own words. 

That feeling which has made the Editor entirely 
unequal to write that part of the volume more directly 
biographical keeps her silent upon it here. She has 
intrusted it to one who knew her Father well, and 
on whom she can rely for an impartial relation of his 
history. It has been more amply detailed than it 
would have been for the public only, at her request, 
in order to satisfy many subscribers to whom the 
account of his life was likely to be especially inter- 
esting. 

LUCY BARTON. 

Woodbridge, August Mth, 1849. 



CONTENTS, 



Page 

13 

Memoir 

LETTERS. 

43 

To the Rev. C. B. Tay ler 5^ 

To Mrs. Shawe ' * " " -^ 

To W. B. Donne, Esq " " " --r 

To Mrs. Sutton ]02 

To Mr. Clemisha lOG 

To Miss H J 12 

To Elizabeth and Maria C .....".... 118 

To Mr. Fulcher " ' ' " " jog 

To Miss Betham j29 

To the Rev. T. W. Salmon 132 

To Jane B. I33 

To the Rev. G. Crabbe 

149 

Letters from Robert Southey j^g 

Letters from Charles Lamb • 

185 

Fragments from I^loyd's Letters ^^^ 

Letter from Sir Walter Scott 

POEMS. 

193 

Sonnet j94 

Great Beatings Churchyard " ^^ 

To the Memory of Mrs. M ^ ^^^ 

To Friends going to the Sea-side ^^^ 

ToJ.W '.'.".".'.'.'. 200 

Two Sonnets. Guido Favvkes -^ ^^^ 

" Not our's the vows of such as plight " ■ • • • ~^^ 

Orford Castle 204 

Pool of Bethesda '..."...'. 20G 

A Full-blown Rose " " " " ' .,,^- 

To Lady Peel oc-i 

Sonnet, On True Worship ' ' " ' ~,^^ 

Sonnet, To my Daughter ........'..".". 2t0 

Tears •- 211 

Izaak Walton ."..... 212 

A Child's Morning Hymn ' ' ^13 

A Child's Evening Hymn '^ j^"^ 



X CONTENTS. 

Bishop Hiibi'ri 215 

The Missionary 217 

Old Age 222 

Pcnn's Treaty with the Indians 223 

" Dews tliat nourish fairest flowers " 223 

Aldborough. To the memory of Crabhe 224 

To a Frienil, on the Death of her Father 225 

In the first leaf of an Alljiini 227 

A Stream 228 

Sabliath Days 228 

Sonnet, To William and Mary Fiowitt 230 

Sonnet, to tlie same 231 

Sonnet, In Memorial of Elizabeth Fry 232 

On some Illustrations of Cowper's Rural Walks 233 

The \Vall -flower 234 

Zechariah xi v. 7 235 

Winter Evenings 236 

Job V. 17 237 

On some Pictures 238 

" As I roam'd on the beach, to my memory rose " 239 

The Philistine Cliampion 240 

Leiston Abbey by Moonlight 241 

The Valley of Fern 243 

An Invitation 246 

Autumn 247 

Spring;, written for a Child's Book 248 

In an .Album 249 

Sonnet, On the Death of Joseph Gurney, 1831 250 

To Joanna 251 

The Solitary Tomb 253 

Ive-Gill 255 

"The ro.«c which in the sun's bright rays" 256 

Which Thitips are a Shadow 257 

To an old Gateway 258 

Fireside Uuatrains to Charles Lamb 2li0 

Sonnet, to the Sister of an old School-fellow 202 

The Curse of Disobedience .... 263 

Signs and Tokens 264 

The Ivy 205 

Silent Worship 207 

To the Memory of Robert Bloomfield 209 

All is Vanity 271 

To I, 272 

Autumn, Written in the Grounds of Martin Cole, Esq 273 

A Grandsire's Tale 275 

Son' ,et, to Nathan Drake 28) 

Ma liew vi. 10 281 

AU'-'orough from the Terrace 282 

89 'et. To a Friend never yet seen, but corresponded with for above twenty 

/ears 283 



CONTENTS. XI 

Sonnet, To Ciinrlottn M 284 

Sonnet, to the Rev. J. J. Reynolds 285 

Fall of an old 'I'ree in Playford Churchyard 286 

The Land wliich no Mortal may know 287 

Fr.ijimcnt on Autumn 286 

On a Vignette of VVoodbridge from the Warren Flill 289 

Invocation to Autumn 290 

Stanzas, to William Roscoe, Esq 292 

On the Alienation of Friends in the Decline of Life 293 

Selborne 298 

Uunwich 299 

To the Skylark 301 

To a very young Housewife 303 

" All around was calm and still " 304 

" Thy path, like most by mortal trod " 305 

John Evelyn 306 

Faith, Hope, and Charity 307 

The Shuiiammiie Woman 303 

The Departed 309 

Verses suggested by a curious old Room at the "Tankard " 311 

The Mother of Dr. Doddridge teaching him Scripture History 312 

" Could I but fly to that calm, peaceful shore " 313 

To a Friend 314 

Hymn for a Sunday School 315 

River Scene 316 

The Abbot turned .Anchorite 317 

From a Poem addressed to Shelley 318 

Autumn Musings 319 

The Sea 320 

To a piou.s Slave owner 323 

Wigs and Tories 323 

The deserted Nest 324 

Triplets for Truth's sake 325 

To little Susan . • 326 

Sonnet 327 

A Dream 328 

In Memory of F. H 331 

" To be remernbcr'd when the face " 332 

To the Deben 333 

Epitai)h 334 

" Oh had I the wings of a dove" 335 

Too Late 336 

On a G arden 336 

Sonnet, toG. D. L 337 

Sonnet, on the Death of a Friend 338 

Written in a Praynrbook given to my Daughter 339 

Inscription for a Cemetery 339 

To A. L 340 

Landguard Fort 341 

To a Friend in Distress 342 

Tardy Approach of Spring 343 



XU CONTENTS. 

The Valley of Fern 344 

To Charlotte M 348 

Scott of Amwell 349 

" Some griefs there are which seem to form " 350 

Stanzas 351 

" There be tliose who sow beside " 352 

To the Wife of one disappointed of his Election 353 

To some Friends returning from the Sea-side 354 

A Village Church 356 

To a Friend on her Birthday 357 

Psalm Ixxvii. 10. Sonnet 359 

A New-year Offering, addressed to Queen Victoria 3C0 

2 Timothy ii. 4 365 

The Bible 36G 

Sonnet 3f)8 

Verses to a Young Friend 369 

Sonnet 371 

Jacob Wrestling 372 

Winter Evening Ditty for a little Girl 373 

1 Kings xvii. 10 375 

On the Death of a Child 376 

To the " Bernard Barton " Schooner 378 

Birthday Verses at Sixty-four 379 

On the Glory depicted round the Head of the Saviour 383 

To a Graiulniothcr 384 

" I walk'd the fields at morning prime" 385 

On a Drawing of Norwich Market-place 386 

The Spiritual Law 386 

Sonnet 390 

Vision of an Old Home 391 

To Felicia Flenians 392 

The Squirrel, for a Child's Book 393 

" It is a glorious summer eve, and in the glowing west" 393 

Playford 394 

Sonnets, To Burstal 395 

Retirement and Prayer 403 

In CceIo Quies 404 



MEMOIR 



OF 



BEUNAED BAETONy 

[from a letter of BERNARD BARTON's.] 

"2 mo, 11, 1839. 

"Thy cordial approval of my brother John's hearty wish to 
bring us back to the simple habits of the olden time, induces me 
to ask thee if I mentioned in either of my late letters the 
curious old papers he stumbled on in hunting' through the 
repositories of our late excellent spinster sister] I quite forjret 
whether I did or not ; so I will not at a venture repeat all the 
items. But he found an inventory of the goods and chattels of 
our great-grandfather, John Barton of Ive-GilJ, a little hamlet 
about five or seven miles from Carlisle; by which it seems our 
progenitor was one of those truly patriarchal personages, a 
Cumbrian statesman — living on his own little estate, and draw- 
ing from it all things needful for himself and his family. I vvil! 
be bound for it my good brother was more gratified at finding 
his earliest traceable ancestor such a one than if he had found 
him in the college of heralds with gules pitrpure and argent 
emblazoned as his bearings. The total amount of his stock, 
independent of house, land, and any money he might have, 
seems by the valuation to have been £61 6s., and the copy of 
his admission to his little estate gives the fine as j£-i, so that 1 
2 (13) 



14 M K M O I R . 

suppose its annual value was then estimated at £2 15«. This 
was about a century back. Yet this, man was the chief means 
of building the little chapel in the dale, still standing. (He 
was a churchman.) I doubt not he was a fine simplc-liearted, 
noble-minded yeoman, in his day, and I am very proud of him. 
Why did his son, my grandfather, after whom I was named, 
ever leave that pleasant dale, and go and set up a manufactory 
in Carlisle; inventing a piece of machinery* for which he had a 
medal from the Royal Society? — so says Pennant. Metiiinks he 
had better have abode in the old grey stone slate-covered home- 
stead on the banks of that pretty brooklet the Ive ! But I bear 
his name, so I will not quarrel with his memory." 

Thus far Bernard Barton traces the history of his family. 
And it appears that, as his grandfather's mechanical genius drew 
him away from the pastoral life at Ive-Gill, so his father, who was 
of a literary turn, reconciled himself with difficulty to the manu- 
factory he inherited at Carlisle. "I always," he wrote, "perused 
a Locke, an Addison, or a Pope, with delight,! and ever sat down 
to my ledger with a sort of disgust;" and he at one time deter- 
mined to quit a business in which he had been "neither success- 
fully nor agreeably engaged," and become "a minister of some 
sect of religion — it will then be time," he says, " to determine of 
what sect, when I am enabled to judge of their respective merits. 
But this I will freely confess to you, that if there be any one of 
them, the tenets of which are more favourable to rational religion 
than the one in which I have been brought up, I shall be so far 
from thinking it a crime, that I cannot but consider it my duty to 
embrace it." This, however, was written when he was very 
young. He never gave up business, but changed one business 
for another, and shifted the scene of its transaction. His re- 

* The manufactorv was one of calico-printing. The " piece of ma- 
chinery " is thus described ny Pennant : — " Saw at Mr. Bernard Bar- 
ton's a plca.sing sight of twelve little girls spinning nt onee at n liori- 
zontal wheel, which set twelve bobbins in motion; yet so contrived, 
that should any accident happen to one, the motion of that might be 
stopped witiiout any impediment to the others." 

t See an amusing account of lii.s porirnii, with iiis favourite books 
ubuut liim, painted about this lime, Letter I. ol this Collection. 



MEMOIR. 15 

ligious inquiries led to a more decided result. He very soon 
left the Church of England, and became a member of the 
Society of Friends. 

About the same time he married a Quaker lady, ]\Iary Done, 
of a Cheshire family. She bore him several children : but only 
three lived to maturity; two daughters, of whom the elder, 
Maria, distinguished herself, afterward, as the author of many 
useful children's books under her married name. Hack; and 
one son, Bernard, the poet, who was born January 31, 1784. 

Shortly before Bernard's birth, however, John Barton had 
removed to London, where he engaged in something of the 
same business he had quitted at Carlisle, but where he pro- 
bably found society and interests more suited to his taste. 
I do not know whether he ever acted as minister in his 
Society; but his name appears on one record of their most 
valuable endeavours. The Quakers had from the very time 
of George Fox distinguished themselves by their opposition to 
slavery : a like feeling had gradually been growing up in other 
quarters of England ; and in 1787 a mixed committee of twelve 
persons was appointed to promote the Abolition of the Slave- 
trade ; Wilberforce engaging to second them with all his 
influence in parliament. Aniong these twelve stands the name 
of John Barton, in honourable companionship with that of 
Thomas CJarkson. 

"I lost my mother," again writes B. B., "when I was only a 
few days old ; and my father married again in my infancy so 
wisely and so happily, that I knew not but his second wife was 
my own mother, till I learned it years after at a boarding 
school." The name of this amiable step-mother was Elizabeth 
Home; a Quaker also; daughter of a merchant, who, with his 
house in London and villa at Tottenham, was an object of B. 
B.'s earliest regard and latest recollection. " Some of my first 
recollections," he wrote fifty years after, "are looking out of his 
parlour windows at Bankside on the busy Thames, with its ever- 
changing scene, and the dome of St. Paul's rising out of the smoke 
on the other side of tiie river. But my most delightful recollec- 
tions of boyhood are connected with the fine old country-house 
m a green lane diverging from the high road which runs through 



16 MEMOIR. 

Tottenham. I would give seven years of life as it now is, for 
a week of that which I then led. It was a large old house, 
with an iron palisade and a pair of iron gates in front, and a 
huge stone eagle on each pier. Leading up to the steps by 
whicii you went up to the iiall door, was a wide gravel walk, 
bordered in summer time by huge tubs, in wiiich were orange 
and lemon trees, and in the centre of the grass-plot stood a 
tub yet luiger, holding an enormous aloe. The hall itself, to 
my fancy then lofty and wide as a cathedral would seem now, 
was a famous place for battledore and shuttlecock; and behind 
was a garden, equal to that of old Alcinous himself. My fa- 
vourite walk was one of turf by a long strait pond, bordered 
witli lime-trees. But the whole demesne was tlie fairy ground 
of my childhood; and its presiding genius was grandpapa. He 
must have been a liandsome man in his youth, for I remember 
him at nearly cigiity, a very fine looking one, even in the decay 
of mind and body. In the morning a velvet cap; by dinner, a 
flaxen wig; and features always expressive of benignity and 
placid cheerfulness. When he walked out into the garden, his 
cocked hat and amber-headed cane completed his costume. To 
the recollection of tliis deliglitful personage, I am, I think, 
indebted for many soothing and pleasing associations with old 
age." 

John Barton did not live to see the only child — a son — tliat 
was born to him by this second marriage. He had some time 
before quitted London, and taken partnership in a malting 
business at Hertford, where he died in the prime of life. After 
his deatli his widow returned to Tottenham, and there with licr 
son and step-children continued for some time to reside. 

In due time, Bernard was sent to a much-esteemed Quaker 
school at Ipswich: returning always to spend his iiolidays at 
Tottenham. When fourteen years old, he was apprenticed to 
Mr. Samuel Jcsup, a shopkeeper at Ilalstcad in Esse.x. "There 
I stood," he writes, "for eight years behind tlie counter of the 
corner shop at the top of Ilalstead Hill, kept to this day" 
(Nov. 9, 1828) "by my old master, and still worthy uncle, 
S. Jesup." 

In 1806 he went to Woodbridge : and a year after married 



MEMOIR. 17 

Lucy Jesup, the niece of his former master, and entered into 
partnership with her brotlicr as coal and corn merchant. But 
she died a year after marriage, in giving birth- to tlie only child, 
who now survives them both; and he, perhaps sickened with 
the scene of his blighted love,* and finding, like his father, that 

* The following verses were published in his first volume : — 

thou from earth for ever fled ! 
Whose reliques lie among the dead, 
With daisied verdure overspread, 

My Lucy ! 

For many a weary day gone by, 
How many a solitary sigh 

1 've heaved for thee, no longer nigh, 

My Lucy ! 

And if to grieve I cease awhile, 
I look for that enchanting smile 
Which all my cares could once beguile, 
My Lucy! 

But ah ! in vain — the blameless art 
Which used to soothe my troubled heart 
Is lost with thee, my better part. 
My Lucy. 

Thy converse, innocently free, 
That made the fiends of fancy flee. 
Ah then I feel the want of thee, 
My Lucy! 

Nor is it for myself alone 
That I thy early death bemoan ; 
Oiir infant now is all my own, 
My Lucy ! 

Couldst thou a guardian angel prove 
To the dear ofllspring of our love. 
Until it reach the realms above, 
My Lucy! 



18 M E M O I R . 

he had less taste for the ledger than for literature, almost directly 
quitted Woodbridge, and engaged himself as private tutor in the 
family of I\Ir. Waterhouse, a merchant in Liverpool. There 
Bernard Barton had some family connexions; and there also he 
was kindly received and entertained by the Roscoe family, who 
were old acquaintances of his father and mother. 

After a year's residence in Liverpool, he returned to Wood- 
bridge, and there became clerk in Messrs. Alexander's bank — a 
kind of office which secures certain, if small, remuneration, 
without any of the anxiety of business ; and there he continued 
for forty years, working till within two days of his death. 

He had always been fond of books; was one of the most 
active members of a Woodbridge Book Club, which he only 
quitted a month or two before he died ; and had written and sent 
to his friends occasional copies of verse. In 1812 he published 
his first volume of poems, called " Metrical Effusions," and be- 
gan a correspondence with Soulhey, who continued to give him 
most kind and wise advice fur many years. A complimentary 
copy of verses which he had addressed to the author of the 
"Queen's Wake," (jvist then come into notice,) brought him 



Could thy angelic spirit stray, 
Unseen companion of my way, 
As onward drags the weary day, 
I\Iy Lucy ! 

And when tlie midniglit hour shall close 
Mine eyes in short unsound repose, 
Couldst thou but whisper off my woes, 
My Lucy ! 

Then, though my loss I must deplore, 
Till ne.xt we meet to part no more 
I 'd wait the grasp tliat from me tore 
My Lucy ! 

For, be my life hut spent like thine. 
With joy shall I tliat life resign, 
And fly to thee for ever mine. 
My Lucy ! 



MEMOIR 



19 



long and vehement letters from the Eitrick Shepherd, full of 
thanks to Barton and praises of himself; and along with all 
this, a tragedy "tiiat will astonish the world ten times more 
than the ' Queen's Wake' has done," a tragedy with so many 
characters in it of equal importance "that justice cannot be 
done it in Edinburgh," and tlicrefore tlie author confidentially 
intrusts it to Bernard Barton to get it represented in London. 
Theatres, and managers of theatres, being rather out of the 
Quaker poet's way, he called into council Capel Loffl, with 
whom he also corresponded, and from whom he received flying 
visits in the course of Loiil's attendance at the. county sessions. 
Lofll took the matter into consideration, and promised all assist- 
ance, but on the whole dissuaded Hogg from trying London 
managers ; he himself having sent them three tragedies of his 
own -, and others by friends of " transcendant merit, equal to Miss 
Baillie's," all of whicli had fallen on barren ground.* 

In 1818 Bernard Barton published by subscription a thin 4to 
volume — "Poems by an Amateur," — and shortly afterward ap- 
peared under the auspices of a London publisher in a volume of 
" Poems," \A\ich, being favourably reviewed in the Edinburgh, 
reached a fourth edition by 1825. In 1822 came out his " Napo- 
leon," which he managed to get dedicated and presented to George 
the Fourth. And now being launched upon the public with a 
favouring gale, he pushed forward with an eagerness that was 
little to his°ultimate advantage. Between 1822 and 1828 he pub- 
lished five volumes of verse. Each of these contained many pretty 
poems ; but many that were very hasty, and written more as task- 
work, when the mind was already wearied with the desk-labours 
of the day ;t not waiting for the occasion to suggest, nor the im- 

* This was not B. B's nearest approach to theatrical honours. In 
1822, (just after the Review on him in the Edinburgh,) his niece Eliza- 
beth' Hack writes to him, "Aunt Lizzy tells us, that when one of the 
Sharps was at Paris some little time ago, there was a party of Eng- 
lish actors performing plays. One night he was in the theatre, and 
an actor of the name of Barton was announced, when the audience 
called out to inquire if it was the Quaker poet." 

t The "Poetic Vigils," pubHshed in 1824, have (he says in the 
Preface) "at least this claim to the title given them, that they are 
the production of hours snatched from recreation or repose." 



20 MEMOIR. 

pulse to improve. Of tliis he was warned by liis friends, and of 
the danger of making himself too cheap with publishers and the 
public. But the advice of others had little weight in the hour of 
success with one so inexperienced and so hopeful as himself. And 
there was in Bernard Barton a certain boyish impetuosity in pur- 
suit of anything he had at heart, that age itself scarcely could 
subdue. Thus it was witii his correspondence ; and thus it was 
with his poetry. He wrote always with great facility, almost 
unretarded by that worst labour of correction ; for he was not 
fastidious himself about exactness of thought or of harmony of 
numbers, and he could scarce comprehend why the public should 
be less easily satisfied. Or if he did labour — and labour he did 
at that time — still it was at task-work of a kind he liked. He 
loved poetry for its own sake, whether to read or to compose, and 
felt assured that he was employing his own talent in tlie cause of 
virtue and religion,* and the blameless affections of men. No 
doubt he also liked praise ; though not in any degree proportional 
to his eagerness in publishing; but inversely, rather. Very vain 
men are seldom so careless in the production of that from which 
they expect their reward. And Barton soon seemed to forget one 
book in the preparation of another ; and in time to forget the con- 
tents of all, except a few pieces that arose more directly from his 
heart, and so naturally attached themselves to his memory. And 
there was in him one great sign of tlie absence of any inordinate 
vanity — the total want of envy. He was quite as anxious others 
should publish as himself; would never believe there could be loo 
much poetry abroad; would scarce admit a fault in the verses of 
others, whether private friends or public authors, though after a 
while (as in his own case) his mind silently and unconsciously 
adopted only what was good in them. A much more likely motive 
for this mistaken activity of publication is, the desire to add to 
tlie slender income of his clerkship. For Bernard Barton was a 
generous, and not a provident man ; and, few and modest as were 
his wants, he did not usually manage to square them to the still 
narrower limit of his means. 

* "The Devotional Verses" (1827) were begun with a very serious 
intention, and seem written carefully throughout, as became the sub- 
ject. 



M E M I R . 21 

But apart from all these motives, the preparation of a book was 
amusement and excitement to one who had little enough of it in 
the ordinary routine of daily life: treaties with publishers — ar- 
rangements of printing — correspondence with friends on the sub- 
ject—and, when the little volume was at last afloat, watching it 
for a while somewhat as a boy watches a paper boat committed 
to the sea. 

His health appears to have suffered from his exertions. He 
writes to friends complaining of low spirits, head-ache, &c., the 
usual effect of sedentary habits, late hours, and overtasked 
brain. Charles Lamb advises after his usual fashion: some 
grains of sterling available trutli amid a heap of jests.* Southey 
replies more gravely, in a letter that should be read and marked 
by every student. 



* "You are too much apprehensive about your complaint. I know 
many that are always ailing of it, and live on to a. good old age. I 
know a merry fellow (you partly know him) who, when his medical 
adviser told him he had drunk away all that part, congratulated him- 
self (now his liver was gone) that he should be the longest liver of the 
two. The best way in these cases is to keep yourself as ignorant as 
you can — as ignorant as the world was before Galen — of the entire 
inner constructions of the animal man; not to be conscious of a 
midriff; to hold kidneys (save of sheep and swine) to be an agreeable 
tiction ; not to know whereabouts the gall grows ; to account the cir- 
culation of the blood a mere idle whim of Harvey's ; to acknowledge 
no mechanism not visible. For, once fix the seat of your disorder, 
and your fancies flux into it like so many bad humours. Those medical 
gentry choose each his favourite part, one takes the lungs — another 
the aforesaid liver, and refers to that whatever in the animal economy 
is amiss. Above all, use exercise, take a little more spirituous liquors, 
learn to smoke, continue to keep a good conscience, and avoid tam- 
perings with hard terms of art — viscosity, schirrosity, and those 
bugbears by which simple patients are scared into their graves. 
Believe the general sense of the mercantile world, which holds that 
desks are not deadly. It is the mind, good B. B., and not the 
limbs, that taints by long sitting. Think of the patience of tailors 
— think how long the Lord Chancellor sits— think of the brooding 
hen." 



22 MEMOIR. 

Keswick, 27 Jan., 1822. 

"I am much pleased with the 'Poet's Lot' — no, not with his 
lot, but with the verses in which he describes it. But let me 
ask you — are you not pursuing your studies intemperately, and 
to the danger of your health .' To be ' writing long after mid- 
night' and 'with a miserable head-ache' is wliat no man can do 
with impunity ; and what no pressure of business, no ardour 
of composition, has ever made me do. I beseech you, remem- 
ber the fate of Kirke White; — and remember that if you sacri- 
fice your health (not to say your life) in the same manner, 
you will be held up to your own community as a warning — not 
as an example for imitation. The spirit which disturbed poor 
Scott of Amwell in his last illness will fasten upon your name ; 
and your fate will be instanced to prove the inconsistency of your 
pursuits with tliat sobriety and evenness of mind which Quakerism 
requires, and is intended to produce. — 

"You will take this as it is meant I am, sure. 

" ]\ly friend, go early to bed ; — and if you eat suppers, read 
afterwards, but never compose, that you may lie down with a 
quiet intellect. There is an intellectual as well as a religious 
peace of mind; — and without the former, be assured there can 
be no health for a poet. God bless you. 

Yours very truly, 

R. SOUTHEY." 

Mr. Barton had even entertained an idea of quitting the bank 
altogether, and trusting to his pen for subsistence. — An unwise 
scheme in all men: most unwise in one who had so little tact 
with tlie public as himself. From this, however, he was for- 
tunately diverted by all the friends to whom he communicated 
his design.* Charles Lamb thus wrote to him : — 

* So long ago as the date of his first volume he liad written to Lord 
Byron on the subject ; who thus answered him : — 

" St. Jameses Street, June 1, 1812. 
"Sir, 

The most satisfactory answer to the concUidiiig part of your letter 

is, that Mr. Murray will ro-publish your volume if you still retain 



MEMOIR. Z6 

"" Dth January, 1823. 

" Throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of 
support beyond what the chance employ of booksellers would 
afford you ! ! ! 

your inclination for the experiment, which I trust will be successful. 
Some weeks ago my friend Mr. Rogers showed me some of the Stanzas 
in MS., and I then expressed my opinion of their merit, which a 
further perusal of the printed volume has given me no reason to revoke. 
I mention this as it may not be disagreeable to you to learn that I en- 
tertained a very favourable opinion of your power before I was aware 
that such sentiments were reciprocal. Waiving your obliging ex- 
pressions as to my own productions, for which I thank you very 
sincerely, and assure you tliat I think not lightly of the praise of one 
whose approbation is valuable ; will you allow me to talk to you 
candidly, not critically, on the subject of yours? — You will not sus- 
pect me of a wish to discourage, since I pointed out to the publisher 
tlie propriety of complying with your wishes. I think more highly 
of your poetical talents than it would perhaps gratify you to hear 
expressed, for I believe, from what I observe of your mind, that you 
are above flattery. — To come to the point, you deserve success ; but 
we knew before Addison wrote his Cato, that desert does not always 
command it. But suppose it attained — 

'You know what ills the author's life assail, 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.' — 

Do not renounce writing, but never trust entirely to authorship. If 
you have a profession, retain it, it will be like Prior's fellowship, a 
last and sure resource. — Compare Mr. Rogers with other authors of 
the day ; assuredly he is among the first of living poets, but is it to 
that he owes his station in society and his intimacy in the best circles ? 
no, it is to his prudence and respectability. The world (a bad one I 
own) courts him because he has no occasion to court it. — He is a poet, 
nor is he less so because he was something more. — I am not sorry to 
hear that you are not tempted by the vicinity of Capel Lofft, Esq., 
though if he had done for you what he has for the Bloomfields I should 
never have laughed at his rage for patronizing. — But a truly well con- 
stituted mind will ever be independent. — That you may be so is my 
sincere wish ; and if others think as well of your poetry as I do, 
you will have no cause to complain of your readers. — Believe me, 
Your obliged and obedient Servant, 

Byron." 



24 MEMOIR. 

"Throw yourself rather, my dear Sir, from the steep Tar- 
peian rock, slap-dash headlong- upon iron spikes. If you have 
but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the bed, 
make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than 
turn slave to the booksellers. Tiicy are Turks and Tartars when 
they have poor authors at tlieir beck. Hitherto you have 
been at arm's length from them. Come not within their grasp. 
I have known many authors want for bread — some repining — 
others enjoying the blest security of a counting-house — all 
agreeing they would rather have been tailors, weavers, — what 
not? — rather than the things they were. I have known some 
starved, some to go mad, one dear friend literally dying in a 
workhouse. You know not what a rapacious, dishonest set these 
booksellers are. Ask even Soutliey, wlio (a single case almost) 
has rftade a fortune by book-drudgery, what he lias found tliem. 
O you know not, may you never know ! tiie miseries of subsisting 
by authorship ! 'T is a pretty appendage to a situation like yours 
or mine ; but a slavery worse than all slavery, to be a bookseller's 
dependant, to drudge your brains for pots of ale and breasts of 
mutton, to change your free thoughts and voluntary numbers for 
ungracious task-work. The booksellers hate us. The reason I 
take to be, that, contrary to other trades, in which the master gets 
all the credit, (a jeweller or silversmith for instance,) and the 
journeyman, who really does the fine work, is in the background: 
in our work the world gives all the credit to its, whom they consi- 
der as their journeymen, and tiicrcfore do they hate us, and cheat 
us, and oppress us, and would wring the bl(;od out of us, to put 
another sixpence in their mechanic pouches. 

• *»•»• 

" Keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. Trust not to 
tlie public : you may hang, starve, drown yourself for any thing 
that worthy personage cares. I bless every star that Providence, 
not seeing good to make me independent, has seen it next good to 
settle me upon the stable foundation of Leadeiihall. Sit down, good 
B. B., in the banking office : what ! is there not from six lo eleven, 
p. M., six days in the week, and is there not all Sunday 1 I'^ie I 
what a superfluity of man's time, if you could think so! Enough 
for relaxation, mirth, converse, jwetry, good thoughts, quiet 



MEMOIR. 25 

tlioughts. O the corroding', torturing, tormenting thoughts that 
disturb the brain of the unhicky vviglit, wlio must draw upon it 
for daily sustenance ! Henccf()rtli I retract all my fond complaints 
of mercantile employment — look uiwn them as lovers' quarrels. 
I was but half in earnest. Welcome dead timber of a desk that 
gives me life. A little grumbling is a wholesome medicine for the 
spleen, but in my inner heart do I approve and embrace this our 
close but unharassing way of life. I am quite serious. 

Yours truly, 

C. Lamb." 



In 1824, however, his income received a handsome addition 
from another quarter. A few members of his Society, including 
some of the wealthier of his own family, raised jE1200 among 
them for his benefit. Mr. Shewell of Ipswich, who was one of 
the main contributors to this fund, writes to me that the scheme 
originated with Joseph John Gurney : — " one of those innumerable 
acts of kindness and beneficence which marked his character, and 
the measure of which will never be known upon the earth." Nor 
was the measure of it known in this instance ; for of the large 
sum that he handed in as the subscription of several, Mr. Shewell 
thinks he was "a larger donor than he chose to acknowledge." 
The money thus raised was vested in the name of Mr. Shewell, 
and its yearly interest paid to Bernard Barton ; till, in 1839, the 
greater part of it was laid out in buying that old house and the 
land around it, which Mr. Barton so much loved as the habitation 
of his wife's mother, Martha Jesup.* 

It seems that he felt some delicacy at first in accepting this 
munificent testimony which his own people offered to his talents. 
But here again Lamb assisted him with plain, sincere, and wise 
advice. 

* See Letter to Mrs. Sutton, p. 77. 



26 MEMOIR. 

"MarcA 24<A, 1824. 
" Dear B. B., 

I hasten to say tliat if my opinion can strengthen you 
in your choice, it is decisive for your acceptance of what has 
been so handsomely offered. I can see nothing injurious to 
your most honourable sense. Think that you are called to a 
poetical ministry — nothing worse — the minister is worthy of his 
hire. 

" The only objection I feel is founded on a fear that the ac- 
ceptance may be a temptation to you to let fall the bone (hard 
as it is) which is in your mouth, and must afford tolerable 
pickings, for the shadow of independence. You cannot propose 
to become independent on what the low state of interest could 
afford you from such a principal as you mention ; and tiie most 
graceful exxuse for the acceptance would be, that it left you free 
to your voluntary functions: that is the less light part of the 
scruple. It has no darker shade. I put in dar/csr, because of the 
ambiguity of the word light, which Donne, in his adniirable poem 
on the Metempsychosis, has so ingeniously illustrated in his invo- 
cation — 

' Make my durl; heavy poem light and light — ' 

where the two senses of light are opposed to different opposites. 
A trifling criticism. — I can see no reason for any scruple then 
but what arises from your own interest; which is in your own 
power, of course, to solve. If you still have doubts, read over 
Sanderson's ♦ Cases of Conscience,' and Jeremy Taylor's 
' Ductor Dubitantium ;' the first a moderate octavo, the latter a 
folio of nine hundred close pages : and wlien you have tho- 
roughly digested tlic admirable reasons pro and con which they 

give for every possible case, you will be ^just as wise as when 

you began. Every man is his own best casuist; and, after all, 
as Epiiraim Smooth, in the pleasant comedy of Wild Oats, lias it, 
'There's no harm in a guinea.' A fortiori, there is less in two 
thousand. 

"I therefore most sincerely congratulate willi yon, excepting 
so far as excepted above. If you have fair prospects of adding 



id E M O I R . 27 

to the principal, cut tlie bank ; but in either case, do not refuse 
an honest service. Your heart tells you it is not offered to bribe 
you from any duty, but to a duty which you feel to be your 
vocation. 

Farewell iieartily, 

C. L." 

While Mr. Barton had been busy publishing, his correspond- 
ence with literary people had greatly increased. The drawers 
and boxes which at last received the overflowings of his capa- 
cious Quaker pockets, (and he scarcely ever destroyed a letter,) 
contain a multitude of letters from literary people, dead or 
living. Beside those from Southey and Lamb, there are many 
from Charles Lloyd — simple, noble, and kind, telling of his 
many Poems — of a Romance in six volumes he was then copy- 
ing out with his own hand for the seventh time; — from old 
Lloyd, the father, into whose hands Barton's letters occasion- 
ally fell by mistake, telling of his son's many books, but " that 
it is easier to write them than to gain numerous readers;" — 
from old Mr. Plumptre, who mourns the insensibility of pub- 
lishers to his castigated editions of Gay and Dibdin — leaving 
one letter midway, to go to his "spring task of pruning the 
gooseberries and currants." There are also girlish letters from 
L. E. L. ; and feminine ones from Mrs. Hemans. Of living 
authors there are many letters from Mitford, Bowring, Conder, 
Mrs. Opie, C. B. Tayler, the Hewitts, &c. 

Owing to Mr. Barton's circumstances, his connexion with most 
of these persons was solely by letter. He went indeed occasion- 
ally to Hadleigh, where Dr. Drake then flourished, and Mr. 
Tayler was curate; — to Mr. Mitford's at Benhall;* — and he 

* Here is one of the notes that used to call B. B. to Benhall in 
those days. 

''Be?ihall, 18-20. 
" My dear Poet, 

We got your note to-day. We are at home and shall Oc 
glad to see you, but hope you will not swim here ; in other words, 
we think it better that you should wait, till we can seat you under a 
cliestnut and listen to your oracular sayings. We hope that, like 



28 MEMOIR. 

visited Charles Lamb once or twice in London and at Islington. 
He once also met Soutliey at Thomas Clarkson's at Playford, in 
the spring of 1624. But tiio rest of the persons whose letters I 
have just mentioned, I believe he never saw. And thus perhaps 
he acquired a habit of writing that supplied the place of personal 
intercourse. Confined to a town where there was but little stirring 
in the literary way, he naturally travelled out of it by letter, for 
communication on those matters; and this habit gradually ex- 
tended itself to acquaintances not literary, whom he seemed as 
happy to converse with by letter as face to face. His correspond- 
ence with Mr. Clemcsija arose out of their meeting once, and 
once only, by chance in the commercial room of an inn. And 
with Mrs. Sutton, who, beside other matters of interest, could 
tell him about the "North Countrie," from which his ancestors 
came, and which he always loved in fancy, (for he never saw it,) 
— he kept up a correspondence of nearly thirty years, though he 
and she never met to give form and substance to their visionary 
conceptions of one another. 

From the year 1828, his books, as well as his correspondence 
with those " whose talk was of" books, declined ; and soon after 
this he seemed to settle down contentedly into that quiet course 
of life in which he continued to the end. Hie literary talents, 
social amiability, and blameless character, made him respected, 
liked, and courted among his neighbours. Few, high or low, 
but were glad to see him at his customary place in the bank, 
from which he smiled a kindly greeting, or came down with 

your sister of the woods, you are in full song; she does not print, I 
think; we hope you do; seeing that you beat her in sense, though 
ehe has a little tlie advantage in melody Together you will make a 
pretty duct in our groves. You liave both your defects ; she devours 
glow-worms, you take snuff; she is in a great hurry to go away, 
and you arc prodigious slow in arriving; she sings at night, wiien 
nobody can hear her, and you write for Ackcrmann, which nobody 
thinks of reading. In spite of all this, you will get a hundred a year 
from the king, and settle at Woodbridgc ; in another month, she 
wUl find no more flies, and set off for Egyi't. 

Truly yours, 

J. M." 



MEMOIR. 29 

friendly open hand, and some frank words of family inquiry — 
perliaps with the offer of a pinch from his never-failinsj snuff- 
box — or the withdrawal of the visitor, if more intimate, to see 
some letter or copy of verses, just received or just composed, or 
some picture just purcliased. Few, high or low, but were glad 
to have him at their tables; where he was equally pleasant and 
equally pleased, whether with the fine folks at the llall, or 
with the homely company at the Farm; carrying every where 
indifferently the same good feeling, good spirits, and good man- 
ners ; and by a happy frankness of nature, that did not too 
precisely measure its utterance on such occasions, checkering 
the conventional gentility of the drawing-room with some 
humours of humbler life, which in turn he refined with 
a little si)rinkling of literature. — Now too, after having 
long lived in a house that was just big enough to sit and sleep 
in, while he was obliged to board with the ladies of a Quaker 
school over the way,* he obtained a convenient house of 
his own, where he got his books and pictures about him. 
But, more than all this, his daughter was now grown up to 
be his housekeeper and companion. And amiable as Bernard 
Barton was in social life, his amiability in this little tele a tele 
household of his was yet a fairer thing to behold ; so completely 
was all authority absorbed into confidence, and into love — 

' A constant flow of love> that knew no fall, 
Ne'er roughen*d by those cataracts and breaks 
That humour interposed too often makes," 

but gliding on uninterruptedly for twenty years, until death 
concealed its current from all human witness. 

In earlier life Bernard Barton had been a fair pedestrian; 
and was fond of walking over to the house of his friend Arthur 



* Where he writes a letter one day, but he knows not if intelligibly ; 
"for ail hands are busy around me to clap, to starch, to iron, to 
plait — in plain English, 'tis washing-day ; and I am now writing close 
to a table on which is a basin of starch, caps, kerchiefs, &c., and 
busy hands and tongues round it." 



30 MEMOIR. 

Biddell at Playford. There, beside the instructive and agree- 
able society of his host and hostess, lie used to meet George 
Airy, now Astronomer Royal, then a lad of wonderful pro- 
mise ; with whom he had many a discussion about poetry, and 
Sir Walter's last new novel, a volume of which perhaps the 
poet had brought in his pocket. Mr. Biddell, at one time, lent 
him a horse to expedite his journeys to and fro, and to refresh 
him with some wliolesome change of exercise. But of that 
Barton soon tired. He gradually got to dislike exercise very 
much; and no doubt greatly injured his health by its disuse. 
But it was not to be wondered at, that having spent the day in 
the uncongenial task of "figure-work," as he called it, he should 
covet his evenings for books, or verses, or social intercourse. 
It was very difficult to get him out even for a stroll in the gar- 
den after dinner, or along the banks of his favourite Deben on 
a summer evening. He would, after going a little way, with 
much humorous grumbling at the useless fatigue he was put 
to endure, stop short of a sudden, and, sitting down in the long 
grass by the river-side, watch the tide run past, and the well- 
known vessels gliding into harbour, or dropping down to pursue 
their voyage under the stars at sea, until his companions, 
returning from their prolonged walk, drew him to his feet 
again, to saunter homeward far more willingly than he set 
forth, with the prospect of the easy chair, tiie book, and the 
cheerful supper before him. 

His excursions rarely extended beyond a few miles round 
Woodbridgc — to the vale of Dedham, Constable's birth-place 
and painting-room ; or to the neighbouring sea-coast, loved for 
its own sake — and faw could love the sea and the heaths beside 
it better than he did — but doubly dear to him from its associ- 
ation with the memory and poetry of Crabbe. Once or twice 
he went as far as Hampshire on a visit to his brother; and once 
he visited Mr. W. B. Donne, at Matlishall, in Norfolk, where 
he saw many portraits and mementoes of his favourite poet 
Cowper, Mr. Donne's kinsman. That which most interested 
him there was Mrs. Bodhnm, ninety years old, and almost 
blind, but with all the courtesy of the old school about her — 
once the "Rose" whom Cowper had played with at Catfield 



M E JI 1 11 . 31 

parsonage vvlicn both were cliildren together, and whom until 
1790, when she revived their acquaintance by sending him his 
mother's picture, he had thouglit " withered and fallen from 
the stalk." Such little excursions it might be absurd to re- 
cord of other men ; but they were some of the few that Ber- 
nard Barton could take, and from their rare occurrence, and 
the simplicity of his nature, they made a strong impression 
upon him. 

He still continued to write verses, as well on private occasions 
as for annuals; and in 1836 published another volume, chiefly 
composed of such fragments. In 1845 came out his last volume; 
wliich he got permission to dedicate to the Queen. He sent 
also a copy of it to Sir Robert Peel, then prime minister, with 
whom he had already corresponded slightly on the subject of 
the income tax, which Mr. Barton thought pressed rather 
unduly on clerks, and others, whose narrow income was only 
for life. Sir Robert asked him to dinner at Whitehall. — 
"Twenty years ago," writes Barton, "such a summons had 
elated and exhilarated me — now I feel humbled and depressed 
at it. Why 1 — but that I verge on the period when the light- 
ing down of the grasshopper is a burden, and desire itself begins 
to fail." — He went, however, and was sincerely pleased with 
the courtesy, and astonished at the social ease, of a man who 
had so many and so heavy cares on his shoulders. When the 
Quaker poet was first ushered into the room, there were but 
three guests assembled, of whom lie little expected to know one. 
But the mutual exclamations of " George Airy !" and " Bernard 
Barton !" soon satisfied Sir Robert as to his country guest's 
feeling at home at the great town dinner. 

On leaving oflice a year after, Sir Robert recommended him 
to the queen for an annual pension of j£100 : — one of the last 
acts, as the retiring minister intimated, of his official career, 
and one he should always reflect on with pleasure. — B. Barton 
gratefully accepted the boon. And to the very close of life he 
continued, after his fashion, to send letters and occasional poems 
to Sir Robert, and to receive a few kind words in reply. 

In 1844 died Bernard's eldest sister, Maria Hack. She was 
five or six years older than himself; very like him in the face ; 



32 M K M O 1 R . 

and had been liis instructress ("a sort of oracle to me," he says) 
when both were children. "It is a heavy blow to me," he 
writes, " for Maria is almost the first human being I remember 
to have fondly loved, or been fondly loved by — the only living 
participant in my first and earliest recollections. When I lose 
her, I had almost as well never have been a child ; for she only 
knew me as such — and the best and brightest of memories are 
apt to grow dim when tiiey can no more be reflected." " She 
was just older enough than I," he elsewhere says, " to recollect 
distinctly what I have a confused glimmering of — about our 
house at Hertford — even of hers at Carlisle." 

Mr. Barton had for many years been an ailing man, though 
he never was, I believe, dangerously ill (as it is called) till the 
last year of his life. lie took very little care of himself; 
laughed at all rules of diet, except temperance; and had for 
nearly forty years, as he said, " taken almost as little e.xercise 
as a mile-stone, and far less fresh air." Some years before his 
death he had been warned of a liability to disease in the heart, 
an intimation he did not regard, as he never felt pain in that 
region. Nor did he to that refer the increased distress he began 
to feel in exertion of any kind, walking fast or going up-stairs, 
a distress which he looked upon as the disease of old age, and 
which he used to give vent to in half-humorous groans, that 
seemed to many of his friends rather expressive of his dislike to 
exercise, than implying any serious inconvenience from it. But 
probably the disease that partly arose from inactivity now be- 
came the true apology for it. During the last year of his life, too, 
some loss of his little fortune, and some perplexity in his affairs, 
not so distressing because of any present inconvenience to him- 
self, as in the prospect of future evil to one whom he loved 
as himself, may have increased tiic disease within him, and 
hastened its final blow. 

Toward the end of 1848 the evil symptoms increased much 
upon him; and shortly after Christmas, it was found that the 
disease was fir advanced. He consented to have his diet regu- 
lated ; protesting humorously against the small glass of small 
beer allowed him in place of tlie temperate allowance of gener- 
ous port, or ale, to which he was accustomed. He fulfilled his 



MEMOIR. 33 

daily duty in the bank,*' only remitting (as he was peremptorily 
bid) his attendance there after his four o'clock dinner.f And 
thoug-Ji not able to go out to his friends, he was glad to see 
them at his own house to the last. 

Here is a letter, written a few days before his death, to one of 
his kindest and most hospitable friends. 



"2 mo, 14, 1849. 
" My dear old Friend, 

Thy home-brewed has been duly received, and I drank 
a glass yesterday with relish, but I must not indulge too often 
— for I make slow way, if any, toward recovery, and at times 
go on puffing, panting, groaning, and making a variety of 
noises, not unlike a loco-motive at first starting; more to give 
vent to my own discomfort, than for the delectation of those 
around me. So I am not fit to go into company, and cannot 
guess when I shall. However, I am fi^ee from much acute suf- 
fering, and not so much hypp'd as might be forgiven in a man 
who has such trouble about his breathing that it naturally puts 
him on thinking how long he may be able to breathe at all. 
But if the hairs of one's head are numbered, so, by a parity of 
reasoning, are the pufl^s of our bellows. I write not in levity, 
though I use homely words. I do not think J sees any 

* He had written of himself, some years before, "I shall go on 
making figures till Death makes me a cipher." 

t For which he half accused himself as " a sJculker.^^ And of late 
years, when the day account of the bank had not come quite right by 
the usual hour of closing, and it seemed necessary to carry on busi- 
ness late into the evening, he would sometimes come up wearied to 
his room, saying — "Well, we've got all right but a shilling, and 
I ' ve left my boys" (as he called the younger clerks) " to puzzle that 
out." But even then he would get up from "Rob Roy," or the 
"Antiquary," every now and then, and go to peep through the cur- 
tain of a window that opens upon the back of the bank, and, if he 
saw the great gas-lamp flaming within, announce with a half comical 
sympathy, that they were still at it ; or when the lamp was at last 
extinguished, would return to his chair more happily, now that his 
partners were liberated. 



34 MEMOIR. 

present cause of serious alarm, but I do not think he sees, on 
the other hand, much prospect of speedy recovery, if of entire 
recovery at all. The thing has been cominjj on for years; and 
cannot be cured at once, if at all. A man can't poke over desk 
or table for forty years witiiout putting some of the machinery 
of the chest out of sorts. As the evenings get warm and light 
we shall see what gentle exercise and a little fresh air can do. 
In the last i'cw days too I have been in solicitude about a little 
pet niece of mine dying, if not dead, at York: this has somewiiat 
worried me, and agitation or excitement is as bad for me as work 
or quickness of motion. Yet, after all, I have really more to be 
thankful for than to grumble about. I have no very acute pain, 
a skeely doctor, a good nurse, kind solicitous friends, a remission 
of the worst part of my desk hours — so why should I fret ? Love 
to the younkers. 

Thine, 

B." 



On Monday, February 19, he was unable to get into the 
bank, having passed a very unquiet night — the first night of 
distress, he thankfully said, that his illness had caused him. 
He suffered during the djiy; but welcomed as usual the friends 
who came to see him as he lay on his sofa ; and wrote a few 
notes — for his correspondence must now, as he had humor- 
ously lamented, become as short-breathed as himself. In the 
evening, at half-past eight, as he was yet conversing cheerfully 
with a friend, he rose up, wont to his bed-n)om, and suddenly 
rang the boll. He was found by his daughter — dying. As- 
sistance was sent for; but all assistance was vain. "In a few 
minutes more," says the note despatclu.'d from the house of death 
that night, "all distress was over on his part — and that warm 
kind heart is still for ever." 



MEMOIR. 35 



The Letters and Poems that follow are very faithful revelations 
of Bernard Barton's soul ; of tiie genuine piety to God, good-will 
to men, and cheerful guileless spirit, which animated him, not 
only while writing in the undisturbed seclusion of the closet, but 
(what is a very different matter) through the walk and practice 
of daily life. They prove also liis intimate acquaintance with the 
Bible, and his deep appreciation of many beautiful passages which 
might escape a common reader. 

The Letters show, that while he had well considered, and 
well approved, the pure principles of Quakerism, he was equally 
liberal in his recognition of other forms of Christianity. He 
could attend the church, or the chapel, if the meeting were not 
at hand ; and once assisted in raising money to build a new Estab- 
lished Church in Woodbridge, And while he was sometimes 
roused to defend Dissent from the vulgar attacks of High Church 
and Tory,* he could also give the bishops a good word when they 
were unjustly assailed. 



* Here are two little Epigrams showing that tiie quiet Quaker could 
strike, though he was seldom provoked to do so. 



DR. E- 



" A bullying, brawling champion of the Church : 
Vain as a parrot screaming on her perch ; 
And, like that parrot, screaming out by rote 
The same stale, flat, unprofitable note; 
Still interrupting all discreet debate 
With one eternal cry of ' Church and State !' — 
With all the High Tory's ignorance, increased 
By all the arrogance that marks the priest ; 
One who declares upon his solemn word-, 
The voluntary system is absurd : 
He well may say so ; — for 't were hard to tell 
Who would support him, did not law compel." 



36 M E M O I R . 

While duly conforming to the usages of his Society on all 
proper occasions, he could forget thee and thou while mixing 
in social intercourse with people of another vocabulary, and 
smile at the Reviewer who reproved him for using the 
heathen name November in his Poems. "I find," he said, 
"these names of the months the prescriptive dialect of ^oe^ry, 
used as such by many members of our Society before me — 
'sans peur ct sans reproclie;' and I use tliem accordingly, 
asking no questions for conscience' sake, as to their origin. 
Yet while I do this, I can give my cordial tribute of ap- 
proval to the scruples of our early friends, wlio advocate a 
simpler nomenclature. I can quite understand and respect 
their simplicity and godly sincerity ; and I conceive that I have 
duly shown my reverence for their scruples in adhering person^ 
ally to their dialect, and only using another poetically. Ask the 
British Friend the name of the planet with a bolt round it, and 
he would say Saturn; at the peril, and on tlie pain, of excommu- 
nication." 

As to his politics, he always used to call himself "a Whig of 
the old scliool." Perhaps, like most men in easy circumstances, 
he grew more averse to change as he grew older. He thus 
writes to a friend in 1845, during the heats occasioned by the 
proposed Repeal of the Corn Laws : — " Queer times these, and 
strange events. I feel most shamefully indifferent about the 
whole affair: but my political fever has long since spent itself. 



On one who declared in a public speech — " This was the opinion he 
had formed oCthe Dissenters ; he only saw in them wolves in sheep's 
clothing." 

" ' Wolves in sheep's clothing !' bitter words and big ; 

But who applies tliem ? first the. sprahcr scan; 
A suckling Tory ! an apostate Wliig ! 

Indeed, a very silly, weak young man ! 

" What such an one may either think or say, 

With sober people matters not one pin ; 
In their opinion, his own senseless bray 

Proves him the ass wrapt in a lion's skin." 



M E M O I 11 . 37 

It was aboiil its heiglit when they sent Burdett to the Tower. 
It has cooled down wonderfully since then. He went there, to 
the best of my recollection, in the character of Burns's Sir Wil- 
liam Wallace — 

' Great patriot hero — ill-requited chief;' — 

and dwindled down afterwards to 'Old Glory.' No more pa- 
triots for me." But Bernard Barton did not trouble himself 
much about politics. He occasionally g-rew interested when the 
interests of those he loved were at stake ; and his affections 
generally guided his judgment. Hence he was always against 
a Repeal of the Corn Laws, because he loved Suffolk farmers, 
Suffolk labourers, and Suffolk fields. Occasionally he took part 
in the election of a friend to Parliament — writing in prose or verse 
in the county papers. And here also, though he more willingly 
sided with the Liberal interest, he would put out a hand to help 
the good old Tory at a pinch. 

He was equally tolerant of men, and free of acquaintance. 
So long as men were honest, (and he was slow to suspect them 
to be otherwise,) and reasonably agreeable, (and he was easily 
pleased,) he could find company in them. " My temperament," 
he writes, " is, as far as a man can judge of himself, eminently 
social. I am wont to live out of myself, and to cling to any- 
thing or anybody loveable within my reach." I have before 
said that he was equally welcome and equally at ease, whether 
at the Hall or at the Farm ; himself indifferent to rank, though 
he gave every one his title, not wondering even at those of his 
own community, who, unmindful perhaps of the military im- 
plication, owned to the soft impeachment of Esquire. But no 
where was he more amiable than in some of those humbler 
meetings — about the fire in the keeping-room at Christmas, or 
under the walnut-tree in summer. He had his cheerful remem- 
brances witii the old ; a playful word for the young — especially 
with children, whom he loved and was loved by. — Or, on some 
summer afternoon, perhaps, at the little inn on the heath, or by 
the river-side — or when, after a pleasant pic-nic on the sea-shore, 

4 



38 M E M O I R . 

we drifted homeward up the river, while tiie breeze died away 
at sunset, and the heron, at last startled by our gliding boat, 
slowly rose from the ooze over which the tide was momentarily 
encroaching. 

By nature, as well as by discipline perhaps, he had a great 
dislike to most violent occasions of feeling and manifestations of 
it, whether in real life or story. Many years ago he entreated 
the author of " May you like it," who had written some tales of 
powerful interest, to write others " where the appeals to one's 
feelings were perhaps less frequent — I mean one's sympathetic 
feelings with suffering virtue — and the more pleasurable emo- 
tions called forth by the spectacle of quiet, unobtrusive, domestic 
happiness more dwelt on." And when ]Mr. Tayler had long neg- 
lected to answer a letter. Barton humorously proposed to rob 
him on the highway, in hopes of recovering an interest by crime 
which he supposed every-day good conduct had lost. Even in 
Walter Scott, his great favourite, he seemed to relish the hu- 
morous parts more than the pathetic ; — Baillie Nicol Jarvie's 
dilemmas at Glennaquoich rather than Fergus Mac Ivor's 
trial ; and OUlbuck and his sister Grizel rather than the scenes 
at tlie fisherman's cottage. Indeed, many, I dare say, of those 
who only know Barton by his poetry, will be surprised to hear how 
much humour he had in himself, and liow much he relished it 
in others. Especially, perhaps, in later life, when men have 
commonly had quite enough of " domestic tragedy," and are 
glad to laugh when they can. 

With little critical knowledge of pictures, he was very fond 
of them, especially such as represented scenery familiar to him 
— the shady lane, the heath, the corn-field, the village, the sea- 
shore. And he loved after coming away from the bank to sit 
in his room and watcii the twiliglit steal over his landscapes as 
over the real face of nature, and then lit up again by fire or 
candle light. Nor could any itinerant picture-dealer jxiss Mr. 
Barton's door without calling to tempt him to a new purchase. 
And then was B. B. to be seen, just come up from the bank, 
with broad-brim and spectacles on, examining some picture set 
before him on a chair in the most advantageous light; the 



MEMOIR. o9 

dealer recommending-, and Barton wavering-, until partly by 
money, and partly by exchange of some older favourites, with 
perhaps a snuff-box thrown in to turn tiie scale ; a bargain was 
concluded — generally to B. B's great disadvantage and great 
content. Then friends were called in to admire; and letters 
written to describe; and the picture taken up to his bed-room 
to be seen by candle light on going to bed, and by the morning 
sun on awaking; then hung up in the best place in the best 
room ; till in time perhaps it was itself exchanged away for 
some newer favourite. 

He was not learned — in language, science, or philosophy. 
Nor did he care for the loftiest kinds of poetry — " the heroics." 
as he called it. His favourite authors were those that dealt 
most in humour, good sense, domestic feeling, and pastoral de- 
scription — Goldsmitii, Cowper, Wordsworth in his lowlier 
moods, and Crabbe. One of his favourite prose books was Bos- 
well's Johnson; of which he knew all the good things by heart, 
. an inexhaustible store for a country dinner-table.* And many 
will long remember him as he used to sit at table, his snuff-box 
in his hand, and a glass of genial wine before him, repeating 
some favourite passage, and glancing his fine brown eyes about 
him as he recited. 

But perhaps his favourite prose book was Scott's Novels. 
These he seemed never tired of reading, and hearing read. 
During the last four or five winters I have gone through 
several of the best of these with him — generally on one 
night in each week — Saturday night, that left him free to 
the prospect of Sunday's relaxation. Then was the volume 
taken down impatiently from the shelf almost before tea was 
over; and at last, when the room was clear, candles snuffed, 
and fire stirred, he would read out, or listen to, those fine 
stories, anticipating with a glance, or an impatient ejaculation 
of pleasure, the good things he knew were coming — which he 

* He used to look with some admiration at an ancient fellow-towns- 
man, who, beside a rich fund of Suffolk stories vested in iiim, had 
once seen Dr. Johnson alight from a hackney-coach at tho Mitre. 



40 MEMOIR. 

liked all the better Ibr knowing they were coining — relishing 
them afresh in the fresh enjoyment of his companion, to whom 
they were less familiar; until the modest supper coming in 
closed the book, and recalled him to iiis cliecrful hospitality. 



Of the literary merits of this volume, others, less biassed than 
myself by personal and local regards, will better judge. But the 
Editor, to whom, as well as the Memoir, the task of making any 
observations of this kind usually fiills, has desired me to say a few 
words on the subject. 

The Letters, judging from internal evidence as well as from 
all personal knowledge of tiie author's habits, were for the most 
part written off with the same careless ingenuousness that char- 
acterised his conversation. "I have no alternative," he said, 
"between not writing at all, and writing wiiat first comes into 
my head." In both cases the same cause seems to me to produce 
the same agreeable effect. 

The Letters on graver subjects are doubtless the result of 
graver "foregone conclusion," — but equally spontaneous in point 
of utterance, without any eflbrt at style whatever. 

If the Letters here published are better than the mass of those 
they are selected from, it is because better topics happened 
to present themselves to one who, though he wrote so much, 
had perhaps as little of new or animating to write about as most 
men. 

Tlie Poems, if not written off as easily as the Letters, were 
probably as little elaborated as any that ever were publisiied. 
Without claiming for them the highest attributes of poetry, 
(which the author never pretended to,) we may surely say they 
abound in genuine feeling and elegant fancy expressed in easy, 
and often very felicitous, verse. These qualities employed in 
illustrating the religious and domestic aflections, and the pastoral 
scenery with which such affections are perhaps most generally 



MEMOIR. 41 

associated, have made Bernard Barton, as he desired to be, a house- 
hold poet with a large class of readers — a class, who, as they may 
be supposed to welcome such poetry as being the articulate voice 
of those good feelings yearning in their own bosoms, one may 
hope will continue and increase in England. 

While in many of these Poems it is the spirit within that 
redeems an imperfect form — just as it lights up the irregular 
features of a face into beauty — there are many which will 
surely abide the test of severer criticism. Such are several 
of the Sonnets ; which, if they have not (and they do not aim 
at) the power and grandeur, are also free from the pedantic stiff- 
ness of so many Englisii Sonnets. Surely that one " To my 
Daughter," (p. 209,) is very beautiful in all respects. 

Some of the lighter pieces — "To Joanna," "To a young 
Housewife," &c.. partake much of Cowper's playful grace. And 
some on the decline of life, and the religious consolations attend- 
ing it, are very touching. 

Charles Lamb said the verses "To the Memory of Bloom- 
field " were " sweet with Doric delicacy." May not one say the 
same of those " On Leiston Abbey," " Cowper's Rural Walks," 
on "Some Pictures," and others of the shorter descriptive 
pieces? Indeed, utterly incongruous as at first may seem the 
Quaker clerk and the ancient Greek Idyllist, some of these 
little poems recall to me the inscriptions in the Greek An- 
thology — not in any particular passages, but in their general air 
of simplicity, leisurely elegance, and quiet unimpassioned pensive- 
ness. 

Finally, what Southey said of one of Barton's volumes — 
" there are many rich passages and frequent felicity of expres- 
sion " — may modestly be said of these selections from ten. Not 
only is the fundamental thought of many of them very beauti- 
ful — as in the poems, " To a Friend in Distress," " The Deserted 
Nest," "Thought in a garden," &c., — but there are many verses 
whose melody will linger in the ear, and many images that will 
abide in the memory. Such surely are tho.se of men's hearts 
brightening up at Christmas "like a fire new stirred," — of the 
stream that leaps along over the pebbles "like happy hearts 
4* 



42 MEMOIR. 

by holiday made light," — of the solitary tomb showing from 
afar like a lamb in the meadow. And in the poem called "A 
Dream," — a dream the poet really had, — how beautiful is that 
chorus of the friends of her youth who surround the central 
vision of his departed wife, and wlio, much as the dreamer 
wonders tiiey do not see she is a spirit, and silent as she remains 
to their greetings, still witii countenances of " blameless mirth," 
like some of Correggio's angel attendants, press around her with- 
out awe or hesitation, repeating " welcome, welcome !" as to 
one suddenly returned to them from some earthly absence only, 
and not from beyond the dead — from heaven. 

E. F. G. 



LETTERS. 

TO THE REV. C. B. TAYLER. 

4 mo, 23, 1824. 
Dear Charles, 

My head and heart are full even to overflowing : 
my eyes are almost dim with gazing at one object, yet are 
still unsatisfied. I keep thinking of one thing all day, 
stealing to feast my eyes on it when I can, and lie down to 
dream of it o' nights. In one sentence, my good cousins 
at Carlisle have sent me my dear, dear father's picture. 
It is in most excellent preservation, not at all injured by 
the journey, and I write to-night to a friend in town to 
arrange for its being neatly framed. But I must de- 
scribe it. 

Its size is about four and a half by rather more than 
three and a half feet ; — how I wish our parlour were a little 
larger ! My dear pater is seated at a round table, his 
elbow resting on it, and his right hand as if partly sup- 
porting his head; the little finger folded down, the two 
fore ones extended up to his temple. Before him is a sheet 
of paper, headed "Abstract of Locke;" the chapter on 
Perception, and the first volume of Locke, open, is on his 
left hand, on his knee. His countenance is full of thought, 

(43) 



44 LETTERS. 

yet equally full of sweetness. What an ugly fellow I am 
compared to him ! A little further on the table is a Ger- 
man flute, and a piece of Handel's music, open, leaning 
against Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination. A larger 
volume also lies on the table, lettered " Kenrick's Dic- 
tionary," and several letters, the date of one of which, at 
the bottom, is JIarch, 1774. (I conclude the picture was 
painted then.) In the corner, just below the table, stands 
a globe. On the book-shelves behind him are, first, a 
volume — the first line of the title I can't make out — 
"on Euclid;" then, I think, "Simpson's Algebra," 
" Fitzosbome's Letters," another book lettered, I think, 
" Ycrulam," " Fordyce," Pope's Works," " Dictionary of 
Arts and Sciences," two or three volumes. The titles 
of the upper row of books are hid by a sort of curtain. 
An open window on the other side of the table gives 
a peep of sun-set sky. His dress is a suit of so red a 
brown as almost to approach to crimson; his hair turned 
back from a fine clear forehead, with a curl over each ear, 
and tied in a sort of club behind : the rufflles at his wrists, 
as well as a frill, to say nothing of the flute, show that he 
bad not then joined the Quakers. His age when this pic- 
ture was taken I suppose about twenty. I think I under- 
stand it was the year before his marriage. His countenance 
is all I could wish it — (delicately fair, whicli I had always 
heard, and rather small features) — in the bloom of youth, 
yet thoughtful — to me full of intellect and benignity. 
how proud I am of him ! — how thankful I am that I have 
written what good-natured critics call poetry ! for to my 
poetical fame, humble as it is, I owe the possession of this, 
to mc, inestimable treasure. It has put me all but beside 
myself; I go and look at it, then stand a little further off, 
then nearer, then try it in a new light — then go to the 



TO THE REV. C. B. TAYLER. 45 

Street door to see if any body be in sight who can at all 
value its beauties, and enter into my feelings — if so, I lug 
them in, incontinently. My goed mother-in-law, I mean 
my wife's mother, a plain, excellent Quaker lady, who, I 
dare say, never went any where to look at a picture before, 
has been to see it; she thinks she sees a likeness to my 
girl in it. I wish I could — but I quite encourage her in 
doing so : my girl will never be half so handsome, though 
far more personable than her father. But she cannot come 
up to her grandfother. I must stop some where, so I may 
as well now. I make no excuses, I will not so far affront 
thee. I conjecture what thy feelings would be hadst thou 
lost a father at the age I was when deprived of mine, hadst 
thou always heard him spoken of as one of the most ami- 
able, and intelligent, and estimable of men, yet been unable 
to picture to thyself what his outward semblance was ; — 
then thirty years and more after his death, to hear that a 
portrait of him, stated by those who knew him to be a 
likeness, was in existence, yet almost to despair of ever 
seeing it, without travelling hundreds of miles — I, too, 
who have little more locomotion than a cabbage ; and after 
all to be its possessor! 



1825. 



One or two of my literary friends do not like my 
Vigils so well as its precursors — they say it is too Quakerish. 
Charles Lamb says it is my best, but that I have lugged in 
religion rather to6 much. Bowring vituperates it in toto 
— save the Ode to Time ; by no means a great favourite 



46 LETTERS. 

with me. I am not put out of conceit with it yet, for all 
this. Its faults are numerous, but it has more redeeming 
pai-ts than either of its predecessors. And so it ought; 
else I had lived two years for nothing. As to its Quaker- 
ism, I meant it should be Quakerish. I hope to grow 
more so in my next — else, why am I a Quaker ? My love 
to the whole visible, ay, and the whole invisible church of 
Christ, is not lessened by increased affection to the little 
niche of it in which I may happen to be planted. The bird 
would not mourn the less the fall of the tree which held 
its nest, because in that nest was found the finst and pri- 
mary source of its own little hopes and fears. How absurdly 
some people think and reason about sectarianism ! In its 
purer and better element, it is no bad thing — not a bit worse 
than patriotism, which need never damp the most generous 
and enlarged philanthrophy. When I no longer love thee, 
dear Charles, because thou art a Chm'chman, I will begin to 
think my Quakerism is degenerating. 



1825. 

I MET with a comical adventure the other day, which 
partly amused, partly piqued me. AVe had a religious 
visit paid to our little meeting here by a minister of our 
Society, an entire stranger, I believe, to every one in the 
meeting. lie gave us some very plain, honest counsel. 
After meeting, as is usual, several,' indeed most. Friends 
stopped to shake hands with our visitor, I among the rest j 
and on my name beuig mentioned to him, rather officiously 
I thought, by one standing by, the good old man said, 



TO THE REV. C. B. TAYLER. 47 

"Barton? — Barton? — that's a name I don't recollect." I 
told him it would be rather strange if he did, as we had 
never seen each other before. Suddenly, when, to my no 
small gratification, no one was attending to us, he looked 
rather inquiringly at me, and added, " What, art thou the 
Versifying Man ?" On my replying with a gravity, which 
I really think was heroic, that I was called such, he looked 
at me again, I thought ''more in sorrow than in anger," 
and observed, " Ah ! that 's a thing quite out of my way." 
It was on the tip of my tongue to reply, "I dare say it 
is/' — but, afraid that I could not control my risible facul- 
ties much longer, I shook my worthy friend once more by 
the hand, and bidding him fai-ewell, left him. I dare say 
the good soul may have since thought of me, if at all, with 
much the same feelings as if I had been bitten by a mad dog 
— and I know not but that he may be very right. 



2 mo, 16, 1826. 
My DEAR Charles, 

On behalf of Ann, who, I am sorry to say, is 
not well enough to write herself, I am requested to say 
that we are quite unable to recommend thee a cook of 
any kind : as to Quaker cooks, they are so scarce that we 
Quakerly folk are compelled to call in the aid of the 
daughters of the land to dress our own viands, or cook 
them ourselves, as well as we can. But what, my dear 
friend, could put it into thy head to think of a Quaker 
cook, of all non-descripts ? Charles Lamb would have told 
thee better : he says he never could have relished even the 
salads Eve dressed for the angels in Eden — his appetite is 



48 LETTERS. 

too highly excited " to sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse." 

— Go to! thou art a wag, Charles; and this is only a sly 
way of hinting that we are fond of good living. But per- 
haps, after all, more of compliment than of inuendo is im- 
plied in the proposition. Thou thoughtest we were civil, 
cleanly, qtiiei, &c., all excellent qualities, doubtless, in wo- 
men of all kinds, cooks not excluded. But, my dear fi-iend, 
I should be sorry the reputation of our sect for the pos- 
ses.sion of these qualities should be exposed to the contin- 
gent vexations which culinary mortals are especially ex- 
posed to. " A cook whilst cooking is a sort of fury," 
says the old poet. Ay ! but not a Quaker cook, at least in 
the favourable and friendly opinion of Adine and thyself: 

— we are very proud of that good opinion, and I would not 
risk its forfeiture by sending one of our sisterhood to thee 
as cook. Suppose an avalanche of soot, to plump down the 
chimney the first gala-da}' — 'twould be cook-ship versus 
Quaker-ship, whether the poor body kept her sectarian 
serenity unruffled ; and suppose the beam kicked the wrong 
way, what would become of all our reputation in the 
temporary good opinion of Adine and thee ? But, all 
badinage apart, even in our own Society there are com- 
paratively few who are in the situation of domestic ser- 
vants, and I never remember but one in the peculiar office 
referred to. I much doubt whether one could be found at 
all likely to suit you ; and I have little doubt that you 
may suit yourselves much better out of our sisterhood than 
in it. 



TO THE UEV. C. B. TAYLER. 49 

2 mo, '23 1846. 
Dear Charles, 

I TOOK up by mere accident the other evening 
thy two volumes of " May you Like it/' given me by thee, 
as they respectively appeared many years ago; and I laid 
them down not until I had faii-ly read them through. 
The Tales themselves, and thy handwriting in the title- 
page of each, sent my thoughts back to long by-gone 
years, and to old places unvisited by me now for many a 
day; pleasant companions now in their graves, or far dis- 
persed ; and a few social parties whom I can never hope 
again to fall in with. I wonder if any days of lang syne 
at Hadleigh ever recur to thee, as they have done to me 
within the last three days. The cheerful, benevolent 
Doctor Drake, his lady, and Mary; the blind aged mother 
of Mrs. D. — Rose, I think her name was. Then, too, a 
glimmering recollection of the somewhat pompous, but 
good-tempered in the main. Dr. Drummond, recurs to me — 
our morning visit to his study, or library, whichever he 
called it, in the room over the gateway. I do not know why, 
but I always fancied Dr. Johnson's Ashbourne friend, 
Taylor, might have been a sort of double of our friend the 
Hadleigh Rector — only, I think the Ashbourne Doctor 
wore a reverend wig; and I have a clear recollection of 
our friend's bald forehead. Then I have a reminiscence 
of a morning call on thy mother and sisters, and seeing 
the fii'st tuberose I ever saw, in your parlour; and 
did we not make a large tea-party there, filling every 
nook and cranny of the room ? and did not A — play 
and sing to us? or is it all a dream? But it was no 
dream, that walk of ours to Aldham — and our poring over 
that old stone at the foot of the obelisk, with its rude in- 

5 



50 LETTERS. 

scription. Another ramble, too, over some heathy or furzy 
hill, where we looked down on "Hadley in the Hole," and 
traced the windings of that brooklet, called by courtesy a 
river — the Brett, or Breta, I forget which they called it. 
If my memory err not, little Clarke (Branwhite) was with 
us on that occasion — he whom the Eclectic Review mar 
liciously wrote of when they said they did not dispute his 
right to the title of M. A., the art of poetry only being ex- 
cepted. But he wrote pleasing verse despite their cavils. — 
Well, my dear Charles, I have now given vent to some of 
the thoughts and feelings those two little tomes have called 
up ; if they dwell with thee as with me — I speak of my 
poor ''shadowy recollections," as the Daddy* calls them — 
thou wilt more than forgive their revival. Dear love to A. 
and thyself. 

Thine affectionately, 

B. B. 

* A playful name for Wordsworth among some of B. B.'h 
friends. 



TO MRS. SHAWE. 



Woodbridge, 3 mo, 2, 1837. 

My dear Friend, 

I OWE thee a long letter in return for a very 
long and delightful one, on the subject of lectures for Me- 
chanics' Institutes : and after a month's silence, I sit down 
to pay thee in what Elia would have called bad coin, alias 
a letteret; but the fact is, I have been, exclusive of my 
ordinary desk-work, rather extraordinarily engaged since the 
receipt of thine. 

I have, or had, two aged uncles, male aunts Lamb used 
to call 'em; not uncles of mine exactly, but of Lucy's 
mother. Just after the receipt of thy last, I had an inti- 
mation that one of them, who lives at Leiston Abbey, had 
been alarmingly ill, and the next Sunday I posted down to 
see him. The day I spent with him, his younger brother, 
of. seventy-five, died. . As he was my old master, to whom I 
served a seven years' apprenticeship, I went the following 
Sabbath into Essex, well-nigh forty miles, to his funeral ; 
that is, I went on the day before, and returned the day after j 
and the nest Sabbath I went again to his surviving brother, 
of seventy-nine, to tell him all about who was present at a 
ceremony which his bodily infirmities had prevented him 
from attending. 

(51) 



52 LETTERS. 

Now, when it is taken into account that year in and year 
out I rarely go farther from home than Kcsgrave one way, 
and Wickham the other, this unwonted change of locality 
has put my personal identity in some jeopardy. And 
never did I feel more inclined to call in question that same, 
than in paying the last mark of respect to my old master. 
The town, a little quiet country one, about thirteen miles 
sideways of Colchester, was one in which during eight 
years I saw little or no change. Thirty-one years after, I 
walked there as in a dream ; the names over all the shop- 
doors were changed, the people were not the same, the 
houses, or most of them, were altered. It was only the 
aspect of the country round, and the position of the main 
street, which I seemed to recognise as the same. The old 
market-place, a piece of rude and simple architecture, which 
looked as if it might have grown there in the reign of 
Elizabeth, and stood just opposite to our shop-door, was 
pulled down, and its place supplied by a pyramidal obelisk, 
bearing three gas lamps — gas ! a thing the good folks 
there, I will answer for it, had scarce heard of thirty years 
ago. Out on such new-fangled innovations ! Had I been 
apprenticed in London I should have thought nothing of 
it; but in a little obscure place like Ilalstead, a spot where 
all seemed changeless during my eight years' sojourn, I was 
fairly posed. Bear in mind that I was there from fourteen 
to twenty-two — knew, and was known by, everybody, 
and was as familiar with all around mo as with the features 
of my own face. Yet I stood as a stranger in a strange 
place, with just enough surviving marks of recognisance 
to perplex and bewilder me. From fourteen to twenty- 
two is the very era of castle-building, and mine were dis- 
solved in air by my return to the site of their erection. No 
wonder that it has taken me all the time since my return to 



T O M R S . S H A W £ . 53 

become myself again, and that I have felt unequal to any 
letterizing. 



9 mo, 1, 1837. 

My only remaining near Quaker relative, my 
sister Lizzy — a discreet, sedate, and deliberate spinster 
of sixty or more, with a head as white as snow, has gone 
over to your church, having received the ordinances of 
Baptism and the Supper from my nephew, a clergyman, 
who married my sister Hack's eldest daughter. My sister 
H. herself had been previously baptized, three of her 
children had long before done the same; my brother and 
his family are all Church-folk, Lucy the same, and I am 
now almost the sole representative of my father's house, 
quite the only one of his children, left as an adherent to 
the creed he adopted from a conscientious conviction of 
its truth. I am left all alone, like Goldsmith's old widow 
in the Deserted Village, looking for water-cresses in the 
brook of Auburn. Lucy tells me I must turn too, but un- 
fortunately, all the results of my reading, reasoning, re- 
flection, observation, and feeling, make me more and 
more attached to my old faith. It seems only rendered 
dearer to me by the desertion of those whom I most love. 
Yet I love them not a whit the less for abandoning it; be- 
lieving as I do, that they have done so on principle. Still, 
principle on their part could be no warrant for a want of 
it on mine; so I jnust e'en be a Quaker still. But the 
change of my dear, good, and ordei'ly old maiden sister, in 
whom I thought there was no variableness nor shadow of 
5* 



54 LETTERS. 

turnins, is the last I should have ever dreamt of, and I 
mouru over and man'el at it by turns. The fii-st feeling, 
however, will soon subside, for I neither feel nor affect any 
horror of the rites and ordinances of your church, though 
I cannot regard them as essential. I as firmly believe that 
there is a baptism which doth now save — a supper of the 
Lamb, whereof all the living members of the Church must 
and do partake — as any Churchman can do: but I still 
retain my conviction that water has nothing to do with 
the first, nor outward bread and wine with the last, in the 
simple, spiritual, and sublime dispensation of the gospel. 
Such, my dear friend, is my creed touching ordinances — 
while it is such, I must still remain. 

Thy affectionate, though Quakerish friend, 

B. B. 



9 mo, 26, 1837. 

Have I written to thee since I received the in- 
telligence of my dear and good spinster sister ha\-ing 
thought it her duty, at near sixty, to become a proselyte to 
your Church, and with her, three other relations of ours at 
Chichester? about, I should think, a fourth or fifth of 
their Lilliputian congregation there. I can only marvel 
and mourn at such changes; my own Quakerism clings to 
me all the closer. An instance, here and there, of a change 
of religious opinion, even in riper years, I could suppose to 
be the result of calm sober inquiry into doctrines taken on 
trust from mere education, and into which little, if any, 
inquiry has been seriously made; though oven this con- 



T O M R S . S H A \V E . 55 

elusion implies no complinieut to reflecting persons, who 
certainly ought, be their faith what it may, to know what 
it is, and why they hold it. But these secessions by the 
lump, this flocking off by families, looks to me more like an 
epidemic disease, than the result of a patient inquiry and 
a deliberate conviction. I can always hear with pleasure 
of the conversion of a Jew, a pagan, or an infidel to a be- 
lief in Christianity; it is a step in advance in the only 
true and saving knowledge, a soul brought out of the dark- 
ness of ignorance into the glorious light of the gospel. 
But a change from one form or profession of Christian 
faith to another, believing as I do that each and all em- 
brace all knowledge necessary to salvation, is not with me 
a matter of much cause of congratulation. With all my 
own penchant for my own " ism," I am not one of those 
who would compass sea and land to gain proselytes to it ; 
for principles of belief, modes of faith, are not with me 
things to be put on and off like a change of apparel. They 
go far to malve up the identity of those who hold them, and 
I get puzzled, bewildered, and I know not what, among old 
friends with new faces. My Lucy was, comparatively, a 
chit when she apostatized (I don't use the word in its 
malignant sense) ; it was conceivable that her thoughts had 
not been before seriously turned to these topics, not mar- 
vellous that then first searching into them she should come 
to a conclusion differing from my own. But a new light 
dawning on well-taught, well-trained, serious, and reflective 
minds, at more than fifty, to whom the oracles of Holy 
Writ have always been open, and whom I know to have 
been daily students therein, is a sort of anomaly I cannot 
understand. 



56 LETTERS. 

Note. — Mr. Barton had previously written to Mrs. Sutton, his 
Quaker correspondent : — 

12 mo, 16, 1834. 

[I SOMETIMES think that if Lucy, as well as a few 
others who have left us, I believe from sincere but mis- 
taken apprehension of duty, could have been content when 
they tirst doubted, to have looked more iuward and less 
outward ; they might have fouud the ol)ject of their search 
without any separation from their early friends. "When 
the woman in the parable had lost the piece of silver, she 
did not go out to seek for it, but lighted a candle and 
swept her own house, and searched diligently till she found 
it; and I believe her case is applicable to many of the 
seekers after good even to the present day. But I readily 
allow that different minds, different dispositions, and di- 
versified views, may require different training — it was not 
intended we should all see eye to eye ; we must bear and 
forbear; for truly we shall all need it, at no distant day, 
when we shall be called upon to give an account of the 
time and talents intrusted to us individuall}', and of their use 
or abuse.] 



12 ino, 5, 1837. 

In one respect the work itself,* and my oflSce 
of Preface writer, have afforded me some soothing and 
gratifying reflections. Differing as Lucy and I do on 

* Miss Barton's Biblo History ; to which Mr. Barton contributed 
a Preface. 



TOMRS.SHAWE. 57 

certain points, it is to me a comforting thought, that we 
can forget and forego all such differences in a cordial though 
humble and feeble effort to uphold the life and character of 
our common Lord and Master as a pattern for the imitation 
of his followers of whatever sect or name ; and can freely join 
in the effort to turn the attention of the young to its beauty 
and excellence. It would say little, indeed, for Lucy's 
Churchanity or my Quakerism, could we have thought, felt, 
or done otherwise. 

And now, after all this egotism, for, Lucy being a sort 
of second self, all I write about her comes under that head, 
I must inquire after N.'s gout. I hope long ere this it has 
ceased, at any rate, to rage ; for I have very awful ideas 
of that malady in its potential mood treasured amid the 
earlier memories of my childhood. My grandfather and 
grandmother had a country-house at Tottenham, where 
some of my happiest hours were spent. But every earthly 
elysium has its set-off; and this was not exempt. A good 
citizen of the name of Townsend, a particular friend of 
the venerable pair, used to come down there and bring his 
gout with him; and my poor grandma's fright lest I 
should go near his too susceptible foot used to keep her 
and me in a worry. — Well-nigh half a century has elapsed 
since those days, but her reiterated exclamation, " Child ! 
do take care and not run against friend Townsend' s foot," 
is yet distinctly in my mind's ear. T. was a patient, quiet 
old sufferer too, and if I did touch the forbidden stool in an 
unlucky moment, he was the first to notify that no harm 
was done. — I hope N. bears his honours as meekly, and that, 
with as kindly a heart as poor old Jemmy Townsend' s, his 
unwelcome companion may be of a kindlier nature. I 
much doubt if the worthy old citizen ever stood or walked 
much — at least, all my recollections of him go on wheels. 



58 LETTERS. 



11 mo, 24, 183a 

My dear Friend, 

I send thee herewith a little book* which to 
many would seem the very essence of insipidity — but if I 
mistake not, thou wilt appreciate more indulgently the 
genuine simplicity of its character. * * * 

* * * To me it is a tome of no common interest, 
from the picture it gives of gentle, unobtrusive goodness — 
and the light it incidentally throws on what I regard as 
the true operative tendency of the Quaker creed, when 
lived up to and simply followed. For though it be per- 
fectly trae that gentleness, meekness, jjatience, faith, and 
love are of no sect, yet the manner in which these are 
taught, and the mode in which they are exhibited, may 
have some distinguishina; features. In the case of this 
young woman, for instance, her growth in Christian ex- 
cellence is not to be traced to her edification under the 
teaching of a Christian ministry. Sudbury, where she 
was born and brought up, is a very small meeting, and I 
cannot now call to mind its ever having had, in my memory, 
even one of our seldom-speaking preachers resident there, 
so that I think it very probable, that through childhood and 
girlhood, except while at school, this girl, week after week, 
and mouth after month, chiefly attended silent meetings only. 
Her Christian knowledge and experience were nurtured by 
no ordinances ; for the outward observances of these she 
never knew, or practised. 

Think not for one moment / am condemning cither a 
stated ministry, the use of a form of prayer, or the ob- 
servance of ordinances among others — very far from it. 



* Memoirs of Maria Jesup. 



TO MRS. SH AWE. 59 

I am only adducing a simple proof that in the absence of 
all these, generally deemed essential, the Great Head of 
the church will himself be the teacher of those who, con- 
scientiously rejecting such helps, under a firm belief of the 
simple spirituality of His religion, look to Him, and his 
word, both written and inwardly revealed, as their rule 
and law. Who shall say that in doing this they have fol- 
lowed cunningly devised fables, or the ignis faiuus of 
mere fanaticism ? The means so blessed to her seem to 
have been, the practice of daily retirement, the study of the 
Scriptures, and diligent attention to what she apprehended 
to be the teaching of the Holy Spirit. What is there that 
ought to be regarded as sectarian in each or all of these ? 
To my judgment, nothing; for they seem to me part and 
parcel of our common Christianity, and to embrace and em- 
body its very essence. 

In the phraseology of her memoranda, Quakerism is 
more apparent, but not to me offensively so. I like it all 
the better, perhaps, from its being, in a manner, my mother 
tongue. To me it has a charm from its simplicity, which 
is in keeping with the unobtrusive retired worth of its 
writer. Nor do I believe such characters by any means 
rare among the young women of the Society. How little 
there is of doctrinal discussion in these memoranda ! no 
mooting of knotty points or abstruse dogmas : all is viewed 
in its practical influence on the heart and its affections, 
and their conformity to the Divine will : and such is, and 
ought to be, and ever will be, the aim, scope, and tendency 
of all true religion. 

Thy affectionate friend, 

B. B. 



60 LETTERS 



1838. 



Dr. Johnson says, I tliink, in a paper of his 
"Idler," written on the death of his mother, that philo- 
sophy may infuse stubbornness, but religion alone can 
give true patience. And he never said anything more 
true. There is a spurious sort of fortitude which the pride 
of our poor frail nature, aided by the cut and dry precepts 
of what is called philosophy, can supply in the hour of 
trial, which may yield a temporary support; but, even 
while it lasts, this spirit of stoical endurance has none of 
the healing virtue of Christian submission : it leaves the 
heart and all its affections hard and dry, unsoftened by 
those afflictions which were graciously sent to melt and 
mould them to nobler influences and enlarged capacities of 
good; while the meek and resigned spirit which God's 
holy word would inculcate, and which his blessed Spirit 
would give to the Christian mourner, leads us to look be- 
yond present suffering to the end it was designed to accom- 
plish, and to the grateful confession that He who does not 
afflict us willingly, has done all well and wisely, and has only 
chastened us to bring us nearer to himself 



1839. 

When any soitow tends to wrap us up in our- 
selves, and makes us think only of our own feelings and 
privations, we may be very sure it is not answering the end 
for which it was mercifully sent. 



T M R S . S H A W E . 61 



1839. 

The longer I live the more expedient I find it 
to endeavour more and more to extend my sympathies and 
affections. The natural tendency of advancing years is to 
narrow and contract these feelings. I do not mean that I 
wish to form a new and sworn friendship every day — to 
increase my circle of intimates; these are very different 
affairs. But I find it conduces to my mental health and 
happiness to find out all I can which is amiable and love- 
able in all I come in contact with, and to make the most 
of it. It may fall very short of what I was once wont to 
dream of; it may not supply the place of what I have 
known, felt, and tasted ; but it is better than nothing — it 
serves to keep the feelings and affections in exercise — it 
keeps the heart alive in its humanity ; and, till we shall be 
all spiritual, this is alike our duty and our interest. 



5 mo, 2, 1840. 

Many thanks to thee and Newton for attending 
at my launch;* I never affect to put on a voluntary hu- 
mility, or affect indifference where I feel aught of gratifi- 
cation or interest : and I did both on the occasion to which 
I refer. At the time, I was sailing about Portsmouth har- 
bour, looking at great castles of ships, to which the B. B. 
was but like a child's toy, made 'out of half a walnut-shell. 

* Launch of the " Bernard Barton" schooner. 
6 



62 LETTERS. 

Some of these leviathans were on the stocks, having been 
hauled up to repair ; and I was asking myself if my vanity 
would not have been more tickled to have had one of these 
first-rates bear my name, and be consigned to its destined 
element amid the shouts of a far more numerous and bril- 
liant assemblage than I could then suppose got together at 
Woodbridge. Of a truth, could the choice have been given 
me, I should have given my vote, most cordially, for the 
schooner B. B. at Woodbridge. I have so decided a pre- 
ference for humbler fame of home growth, awarded by 
folks that I have lived among for thirty-five years, and am 
linked to by numberless and nameless ties of neighbourly, 
social, and friendly sympathy. With these feelings thou 
wilt readily feel and understand that the B. B. is a bit of a 
pet with me, and I really believe I have as much interest 
in her well-doing as if I held a share in her. I have been 
down several times to sec her as she lies along-side the 
quay : her rigging and mast, with some of her sails, are 
now up, and this week she is to sail, I think to Hartlepool, 
a port, I believe, on the Durham coast, some where near 
Sunderland. Our ancestors, who used to be devout in 
their phraseology, even about business, had in their old 
printed bills of lading a phrase, now, I believe, gone out 
of fashion, and, after stating the cargo, and the time al- 
lowed for the voyage and delivery, the old finale ran thus 
— " and so God speed the good ship, and send her safe to 
her desired port!" or some words to that efiect. The 
thing I dare say was a mere form, and to nine-tentha 
using and signing it, had no meaning. I thought, however, 
this evening, as I turned away from the quay, I could echo 
the old phrase very cordially. 



TO MRS. SHAWE. * 63 



TO ANOTHER CORRESPONDENT. 

[Some of my townsmen, three or four years ago, 
took it into their heads to name a schooner, built at this 
port, after their Woodbridge poet. The parties were not 
literary people, or great readers or lovers of verse ; I am 
not sure that they ever read a page of mine. But I sup- 
pose they thought a poet creditable, some how or other, to 
a port; and so they did me that honour, for which I am 
vastly their debtor. The stanza, 

" Thou bcar'st no proud or lofty name 
Which all who read must know," 

is no flight of voluntary humility on my part, but a sim- 
ple • record of a positive fact ; for the captain has told me 
he has been asked over and over again, up the IMersey, the 
Humber, the Severn, and I know not where else, what 
person or place his ship is named after? and I fancy the 
poor fellow has been at some pains to convince inquirers 
that among my own folk I really pass for somebody. A.t 
any rate, his vessel was once put down in the shipping 
list, among the arrivals at some far-off port, as ^' The Barney 
Burton." Oh, Willy Shakspeare ! well mightest thou ask 
What 's in a name ?"] 



1 mo, 8, 1843. 

My dear Friend, 

Were I to follow out my own inclination in 
saying all that thy questions might suggest to me as 



64 * LETTERS. 

worthy to be said on the topics referred to, it would lead 
me iuto a wide field of discussion ; but I will not trust 
myself to do this, lest I should subject myself to be classed 
with those of old who were said to "darken counsel by 
words without knowledge." I am perfectly aware that 
St. Paul uses the words quoted by thee, "I suffer not a 
woman to teach;" they arc to be found in the Epistle to 
Timothy, and the context, if my memory deceives me not, 
runs thus, — " nor to usurp authority over the man.'''' 
Where any such disposition could be manifested, I readily 
grant that woman could be very ill qualified to teach either 
her own sex or ours, haAning need to be taught herself the 
very first rudiments of a gospel ministry. I am quite 
aware, too, the same apostle in his Epistle to the Cor- 
inthians speaks after this fashion, " Let your women keep 
silence in the churches, for it is not permitted unto them 
to speak." And here again I think the context tends to 
throw some light on the interdiction, "If they will learn 
anything^ let them ask their hu.sbands at home :" words 
which, to my understanding, pretty plainly intimate the 
sort of speaking which the apostle intended absolutely to 
forbid. Those women, or men cither, who would speak 
in the churches, merely to ask questions whereby they 
might learn somewhat, could hardly be qualified for the 
high and holy office of the ministry. Now these two are, 
I think, the only passages interdictory of women's preach- 
ing — that their real spirit is not opposed to the lawfulness 
(under the gospel dispensation) of a female ministry, I am 
compelled to believe for the following reasons : — 

First, the entire spirituality of the gospel dispensation, 
its abolition of all the old IMosaic law of priesthood, which 
vested the office of the ministry in the sons of Levi, ex- 
clusively. This marked distinction is explicitly made by 



TOMRS.SHAWE. 65 

Peter in his address to the people on the day of Pentecost, 
when he says, ''This is that which was spoken by the 
prophet Joel ; — 'I will pour out of my Spirit upon all 
flesh : and your sons and your daughters shall projjhesy : — 
and on my servants and on my handmaidens I will pour out 
in those days of my Spirit; and they shall prophesy ! "' In 
fact, I believe it to be one of the gloi'ious features of that 
new priesthood which our Lord himself set up in his church, 
that it is limited to no sex, or rank, or station. 

In the second place, the passages referred to in St. 
Paul's Epistles as interdictory of women's preaching do 
not appear to me conclusive, because they are in direct 
contradiction to other passages in his own writings. If 
he meant, in toto, to forbid the ministry of women at all, 
why give directions what their attire or costume should 
be when praying or prophesying, and that they should do 
neither with their heads uncovered? The whole tenor of 
the opening of the 11th chapter of 1st Corinthians, shows 
that the apostle there refers to what openly passed in the 
public assemblies of the early church. When I find the 
same apostle sending such a message as this, "Salute 
those women who laboured with me in the gospel" — (I 
find I have quoted wrong, trusting to memory; his words 
are) — " Help those women which laboured with me in the 
gospel," I think it no forced construction that they were 
fellow ministers. The same I should infer of Priscilla, 
whom he styles one of his helpers in Christ. But it 
would be endless to quote all the passages which tend to 
show, that in the earlier age of the church, and in the 
primitive ptirity of its apostolic government, women did exer- 
cise their gift in the ministry. 

With regard to the practical working of this liberty of 
6* 



66 LETTERS. 

prophesying, in our own Society, I can only say that I 
believe it has worked well ; and that some of the most 
powerful, cflfective, and persuasive ministers in the So- 
ciety have been women, — and still are. I cannot under- 
stand why there should be aught of soul in sex which 
should qualify the one exclusively, and disqualify the 
other from becoming fit recipients of those influences of 
the Spirit by the aid of which alone man or woman can 
speak to edification. In some respects, especially as re- 
gards our own Society, I should say that women, among 
us, taking into account their general training, habits, and 
the life they lead, have some peculiar advantages, tending to 
fit and qualify them for the service of the ministry; but on 
these it is superfluous to dwell. 

I do not pretend to assert that the arguments I have 
adduced for the lawfulness of female preaching, under the 
gospel dispensation, are such as will satisfy a church- 
woman of the propriety of the custom. "We are so much 
the creatures of habit, of education, of tradition, that from 
the same admitted premises, we are very apt to come to 
opposite conclusions ; but I hope I have said somewhat 
which may warrant thy charitable and tolerant conviction 
that we have not come to the decision adopted without 
much thought and reflection on the subject; and that we, 
at least, fhink we have Scripture on our side; judging, 
not by one or two insulated passages, divested of their 
context, but by the spirit and scope of the New Testament 
law, and a careful and prayerful consideration of the facts 
recorded in it. 

I have made a much longer commentary than I in- 
tended on the text which I was requested to explain, so I 
cannot now answer thy other queries. Forgive my pro- 



TOMRS.SHAWE. 67 

lixity, and believe me, however we may differ, thy as- 
sured and 

Affectionate friend, 

B. B. 



1 mo, 12, 1843. 

My dear Friend, 

Though thy silence by no means leads me to 
infer that my last long letter was a satisfactory one, I feel 
disposed to proceed to say a word or two on thy other 
queries while they are fresh in my memory. Happily, on 
them I have only simple facts to state, and the general prac- 
tice to report. 

Persons of either sex who are impressed with the be- 
lief that they are called upon by the impulse of religious 
duty to speak in our assemblies, are not m the practice of 
making any profession to this effect. If, for instance, I can 
for a moment suppose myself to be thus called upon, I 
should simply stand up in my usual place in our meeting, 
and express the few words which I conceived it my duty 
to utter. It might probably be a simple text of Scripture, 
without note or comment of any kind super-added : of 
such an appearance no notice would probably be taken at 
first, either as encouragement or the contrary; for, while 
friends cannot consistently with their principles forbid 
such communication, if made in a reverent and decorous 
manner, they are careful not hastily to foster, or lay hands 
on any who make such an appearance. If it be from time 
to time again repeated, and a few words either of exhort- 
ation or encouragement added to the passage so quoted, 



68 LETTERS. 

those in the meeting who fill the station of approved minis- 
ters or elders, have a watchful eye on the party : not only 
what he or she may say, and the spirit in which it seems 
to be uttered, are attentively observed ; but the general life 
and character of the partj^, and its consistency with the 
principles of the Society, are weighed and observed. If 
all these tend to confirm the judgment that such a person 
is really acting under the influence of the Spirit, he or she 
is permitted to exercise the gift for a longer or shorter 
time of probation, as such an exercise of it may afford the 
more judicious and solid part of the meeting an oppor- 
tunity of coming to a decision. If after such probationary 
exercise the speaker, by increasing power and authority, 
give satisfactory proof that his ministry is of the true 
stamp; the meeting of ministers and elders, a select body 
who have meetings of their own, distinct from the more 
public ones, recommend to the monthly meeting at large, 
that such a person be considered as a minister in unity 
with and approved by the body at large. But I have 
known such a time of ordeal last for a year or two, before 
any steps have been taken publicly to recognise him or her 
as a minister. In fact, I have known cases where such a re- 
cognition has never been made, but the speaker has held 
the rather anomalous station of an allowed or tolerated, 
but not an approved minister. In such cases, however, 
the appearances of the speaker have generally been neither 
long nor frequent, and are rather submitted to by the body 
from a feeling of kind forbearance toward the parties, who 
may be supposed to relieve their own minds by such utter- 
ance, although they may not edify the body. Still, if they 
say nothing unsound or unscriptural, and are not often in 
the practice of speaking, it seems safest and wisest to let 
them alone. If they become very troublesome, and give 



TO IM R S . S II A W E . 69 

evident proof that their supposed gift is spurious, they are 
first privately dissuaded from making any such appearance 
in the ministry : — if they still continue the practice, an 
elder, minister, or overseer of the meeting would publicly 
request them to sit down ; but I have rarely known the 
thing carried so far. Where a gift in the ministry has 
been considered genuine, and acceptably exercised, the party 
has mostly continued in that station during life. 

I do not see aught in our creed which should render 
such a continuance stranger among us than others. I 
know of nothing in the practice or theory of Quakerism 
which should give rise to the report that we are ''called 
upon to confess our faults one to another" — most certainly 
if aught at all bordering on the "auricular confession" of 
the Romish Church be implied, I have never heard of any 
thing of the sort. 

If my answers to thy questions are not intelligible, I shall 
be perfectly willing to make them so, or to try to give thee 
any further explanation. 

Thy assured friend, 

B. B. 



1843. 

The longer I live the more I love and prize 
Quaker principles. But I am well content to love them 
without compassing sea and land to make proselytes to 
them^ and would rather be thought in error for holding 
them, even by those whom I most esteem, than risk any 
infringement of that perfect law of love which is the 



70 LETTERS. 

essence and substance of religion itself, by disputing 
about them. Most happily, my dear friend, none of these 
are primary, vital, and essential truths — on them we cor- 
dially agree. All who look to the propitiating atonement 
of Christ, and that alone, for salvation; all who humbly 
seek for, and strive to live in obedience to, the teachings 
of the Holy Spirit, as the means of their regeneration and 
sanctification ; all such, be their name or sect what it may, 
I look upon as living members of the one truly Catholic 
Church. They hold allegiance to one Head, and derive 
their life from one Root. 



TO W. B. DONNE, ESQ. 



4 ?no, 5, 1840. 



Pray make my very kindest respects to Mrs. 
Donne, and my most reverential ones to Mrs. Bodham. I 
believe I am more proud of having sat on the sofa with 
her, than of having, or being about to have, a ship named 
after me. The Bernard Barton may go to the bottom, 
(though I hope better things for her, — how odd it seems 
to write of myself in the feminine gender !) and her fate 
may bring disgrace on my name, as having tended to bring 
about such a catastrophe; but nothing in the unrolled 
scroll of the future, so long as that future is passed by me 
in this state of being, can cheat me out of the remembrance 
of that bright hour or two at Mattishall, and in its envi- 
rons. There are few in my life that I have lived over again 
with more delight. 

I am finishing my letter, begun three days ago, in my 
own little study, six feet square, at the witching hour of 
night, having just closed two ponderous ledgers brought 
out of the bank, to do lots of figure-work, after working 
there from nine to sis. I only wish I had thee in the 
opposite chair, to take a pinch out of the Royal George,* 

* A snuff-box made out of the recovered wood of the Royal 
George. 

(71) 



72 LETTERS. 

or another, as interesting a relic, sttmJing by me on the 
table — a plain wooden box, the original cost of ■which 
might be 25. Qd. or 3s. ; but to me it has a worth passing 
show, having been the working-box and table-companion 
of Crabbe the poet. It was given me by his son and 
biographer, and I prize it far beyond a handsome silver 
one, Crabbe's dress box, which I think his son told me he 
gave to Murray. 



6 mo, 23, 1842. 

Well, but now about thy Roman History, for 
certain numbers of which I am thy debtor. "When the 
numbers fii'st came I said, "Go to — I will be wise, and 
study history. I never yet read a history in my life, 
save after the hop-skip-and-jump fashion, but now I will 
become historic." Alas! alas! I did most faithfully, 
honestly, and truly read, mark, learn, and strove inwardly 
to digest; but I got on slowly. I thought of the first line 
of Wordsworth's sonnet to my neighbour the great abo- 
litionist — 

" Clarkson, it was an obstinate liiil to climb !" 

and "the more I read the more ray wonder grew" at the 
persevering industry of thyself in digging, sifting, sort- 
ing, and arranging such an accumulation of historical 
details. At times I honestly own I flagged, but when I 
called to mind thy labour of love in having written it all, 
and corrected the proofs; to say nothing of first collecting 
the materials, and that these numbers were but a speci- 



TO W. B. DONNE, ESQ, 73 

men; I marvelled more and more. Still, the longer I 
read, the more I became convinced I was hopelessly un- 
historical — that in my phrenology the organ of history was 
very imperfectly developed. Yet thy history is a good 
history notwithstanding, true, and faithful, and learned; 
but such is the wayward perversity of a poet, methinks I 
should like it better had it fewer facts, and more fiction 
interwoven. 

If I have not in sober earnest given cause of offence to 
thee, by my inability to ride thy hobby, pray write and 
tell me how it fares with you all. It ought to be no 
ground of quarrel with me in thy eyes, if I feel more 
interested about Catherine than Cornelia, or about thy 
two eldest boys than about Romulus and Remus. Mrs. 
Donne is, I hope, too very a woman not to like me the 
better for it; and, as her husband, thou art bound to for- 
give me. I direct this to the Penates at Mattishall. 



Woodbridge, 6 ino 25, 1847. 

My dear Donne, 

I SEND thee the annexed little tribute,* not to 
challenge any laud for its poetical merits, nor because the 
character it commemorates had much of what scholars and 
critics would call poetical in his composition, but simply 
because Ms had the elements, the material of such in 7ny 
eye. He was a hearty old yeoman of about eighty-six — 
had occupied the farm in which he lived and died about 

* A Memorial to T. H. 



74 LETTERS. 

fifty-five years. Social, hospitable, friendly; a liberal 
master to his labourers, a kind neighbour, and a right 
merry companion " within the limits of becoming mirth." 
In politics, a staunch AVhig; in his theological creed, as 
sturdy a Dissenter; yet with no more party spirit in him 
than a child. He and I belonged to the same book club 
for about forty years. He entered it about fifteen years 
before I came into these parts, and was really a pillar in our 
literary temple. Not that he greatly cared about books, 
or was deeply read in them, but he loved to meet his 
neighbours, and get them round him, on any occasion, or 
no occasion at all. As a fine specimen of the true English 
yeoman, I have met few to equal, hardly any to surpass 
him, and he looked the character as well as he acted it, till 
within a very few years, when the strong man was bowed 
by bodily infirmity. About twenty-six years ago, in his 
dress costume of a blue coat and yellow buckskins, a finer 
sample of John Bullism you would rarely see. It was the 
whole study of his long life to make the few who revolved 
round him in his little orbit, as happy as he always seemed 
to be himself; yet I was gravely queried with, when I 
happened to say that his children had asked me to write a 
few lines to his memory, whether I could do this in 
keeping with the general tone of my poetry. The speaker 
doubted if he was a decidedly pious character. He had 
at times, in his altitudes, been known to vociferate at the 
top of his voice, a song of which the chorus was certainly 
not tcetotalish — 

Sing old Rose ami burn the bellows, 
Drink and drive dull euro awuy." 

I would not deny the vocal inipcachment, for I had heard 
him sing the song myself, though not for the last dozen 



TO W. B. DONNE, ESQ. 75 

years. As for his being or not being a decidedly pious 
character, that depended partly on who might be called on 
to decide the question. He was not a man of much profes- 
sion, but he was a most diligent attender of his place of wor- 
ship, a frequent and I believe a serious reader of his Bible, 
and kept an orderly and well-regulated house. In his blither 
moods I certainly have heard him sing that questionable 
ditty before referred to, but, as it appeared to me, not under 
vinous excitement so much as from an unforced hilarity which 
habitually found vent in that explosion ; and I think he never 
in my presence volunteered that song. It was pretty sure to 
be asked for once in a while, by some who liked to hear 
themselves join in the chorus. I believe it" was his only one, 
with the exception of Watts's hymns, which he almost knew 
by heart, and sang on Sunday, at meeting, with equal fervour 
and unction. Take the good old man for all in all, I look 
not to see his like again, for the breed is going out, I fear. 
His fine spirit of humanity was better, methinks, than much 
of that which apes the tone and assumes the form of divinity. 
So now I think I have told thee enough to weary thee, in 
prose, as well as verse, of my old neighbour and friend the 
Suffolk yeoman. 

Thine truly, 

B. B. 



6 7no, 12, 1847. 
My dear Donne, 

I HAVE never heard of, or from thee, since I 
wrote thee my thanks for cutting up some verses I sent 



76 LETTERS. 

thee as a sort of requiem for a near and dear friend of mine ; 
and I really think the readiness with which I submitted tx) 
thy critical dissection on that occasion ought to have elicited 
thy special commendation ; considering that from the time 
of the appeal made by those two mothers to Solomon, few, if 
any, purente have been found willing to submit their offspring 
to such an operation. But I can forgive thy sins of commis- 
sion sooner than thy sins of omission. 



10 mo, 30, 1848. 

I BELIEVE, and know by sad and dire experience, 
that shopkeepers and artisans, clerks, journeymen, are in 
many cases sorely overworked; and have not proper and 
needful leisure allowed them for rest or recreation. If a 
scrap of my doggerel could help my brother galley-slaves and 
myself, why not send it ? But I lack faith. Mere earlier 
closing will not do the job. We used to keep open till five, 
daily ; but for these two years and more we have shut up at 
four, save on market days. Yet we stop later of evenings, 
from the increased pressure of business, since we have closed 
at four, than we used to do when we kept open till five. So 
we have taken little by thai movement. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 



Of these letters, written to a Quaker lady, (whom Mr. Barton never 
saw,* but corresponded with for more than twenty years, the first 
division alludes mainly to some little charges of Quaker non-con- 
formity ; charges kindly and half playfully made, and so answered. 

The last division refers to certain controversies among the Friends, 
and secessions from that body, several years ago. 

7 mo, 2G, 1839. 

My dear good old mother's house is to be sold 
or offered by auction to-morrow. * * * The house, 

* To this lady he addressed the sonnet : — 

Unknown to sight — for more than twenty years 
Have we, by written interchange of thought, 
And feeling, been into communion brought 
Which friend to friend insensibly endears ! 
In various joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 
Befalling each ; and serious subjects, fraught 
With wider interest, we at times have sought 
To gladden this — yet look to brighter spheres I 
We never yet have met ; and never may. 
Perchance, while pilgrims upon earth we fare ; 
Yet, as we seek each other's load to bear, 
Or lighten, and tliat law of love obey. 
May we not hppe in heaven's eternal day 
To meet, and happier intercourse to share ? 
7 * (77) 



78 



LETTER S. 



though very large and roomy, is near two hundred years 
old and copyhold, so not very saleable, but sold on some 
terms it must and will be : so I turned into its old- 
fashioned garden the other day a young artist friend of 
mine, and sat him down on a stool in the middle of the 
long gravel walk leading from the parlour door to the 
bottom of the garden, which ends with a most beautiful 
and picturesque group of trees. These he has made a de- 
lightful water-colour sketch of — an upright, about eleven 
inches high and eight wide. In the afternoon he turned 
his seat round, and sketched the back or garden front ot 
the house, as it looks from the garden, above, under, and 
through the trees. This drawing he has made as a com- 
panion to the Ive-Gill sketch he did me a short time ago, 
and the same size, ten inches by eight, so I have hung the 
trio over my study fire; and just under the tall upright 
one, I have hung the portrait of the old dear herself, so they 
hang after this fashion : — 



and a very pretty quartetto they make, the two garden 
scenes arc such vivid transcripts of the spot depicted, and, 
though slight and free sketches only, retain so perfectly 
the spirit and character of the places that I could sit and 
look at them till I half fancy myself in the old familiar 



TOMRS. SUTTON. 79 

haunt; and the blessed old dear herself looks so perfectly 
at home, in the middle of her old and favourite garden, 
that it is quite a treat to look at her. Ive-Gill, I promise 
thee, is in goodly company, and becomes it well. Mother's 
house and garden were so old-fashioned, and the latter so 
wildly overgrown with trees, that they assort well together. 
Over the top of the house, as high as its towering chimney, 
is the tufted top of a tall sycamore, growing in the court-yard 
next the street : this, mother stuck in a twig, to tie a flower 
to, or point out where some seeds were sown, when she came 
home a bride near sixty-six or sixty-seven years ago. It took 
root, and is now a lofty tree, but one very likely to be cut 
down by some new owner, so I wished to preserve its memo- 
rial. But it is now breakfast time, and I have been scrib- 
bling this hour. 

[Mr. Barton himself bought this house and grounds 
with some of the money presented to him by the Friends 
in 1824.] 



10 mo, 11, 1843. 

And now for thy dressing about my pictures, 
which I own at first took me a little by surprise ; for as I 
am in a great measure thy debtor for the largest picture I 
have, as well as for one of my favourites among the smaller 
ones — I refer of course to my father's portrait and the 
Ive-Gill sketch — I took it for granted thou wast aware 
I had such things about me. My printed and published 



80 LETIERS. 

poems, too, contain such frequent passing allusions to 
works of art, that I took it for granted I could scarcely 
have a reader who was ignorant how much and how often 
£ have been indebted to their silent prompting for many a 
descriptive and illustrative image in my poetry. When 
I first read thy friendly and good-natured lecture, I 
laughed and said to Lucy, — " What a lucky thing it is we 
did not act on our first impulse about Lily,* and get her 
down here; the poor dear child would have been per- 
fectly horror-struck to see how our walls are covered. But 
I will tell Mary the whole length and breadth of my 
enormities, and describe each and all of my pictures at full 
length to her.'' A little reflection, however, led me to 
doubt if I were justified in doing this. Thy objections to 
hanging up such things may be as much a matter of con- 
science with thee as the use of them is with me the result 
of considerable thought, which gave me, to my own con- 
science, to regard such use as an allowable liberty. If I 
looked on such works of art as mere ornaments hung up 
to gratify the vanity of the possessor, I should corcially 
join in thy objection to them ; but I regard them in a very 
difierent light. My limited leisure and my foiling bodily 
strength do not allow of my being the pedestrian I once 
was. I often do not walk out of the streets for weeks to- 
gether j but my love of nature, of earth, and sky, and 
water ; of trees, fields, and lanes ; and my still deeper love 
of the human face divine, is as intense as ever. As a 
poet, the use of these is as needful to me as my food. I 
can seldom get out to see the actual and the real; but a 
vivid transcript of these, combined with some little effort 
of memory and fancy, makes my little study full of life, 

* His correspondent's daughter. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 81 

peoples its silent walls with nature's cherished charms, and 
lights up human faces round me — dumb, yet eloquent in 
their human semblance. 



1 mo, 16, 1846. 

I AM about to try thy faith, love, and charity 
to an hair's breadth, by sending thee a little print of the 
interior of my study with its pictures on the walls, and — 
its crucifix on the mantel-piece. What would our friend 
Smeal * say to such a delineation of the interior of the crib 
in which I spend what little of leisure I can get from 
desk work? I dare say it would confirm his worst sus- 
picions of me. Well, there it is, and there is a figure in 
it meant to indicate me ; but about as much like Robinson 
Crusoe, as it is like me. * * * 

* * * But the crucifix — well, my dear friend, the 
crucifix — * * * It Ycas brought from Germany, I 
think, by a friend of mine, and placed where it now stands, 
by his wife, (a true Protestant,) in my absence, the day 
before they left Woodbridge, as a parting memorial j and 
I have simply allowed it to stand there ever since, now, I 
think, three years ! It has called forth, frequently, a kind 
thought of the giver ; now and then I hope not an unkind 
one of our erring fellow Christians who mistake the use of 
such emblems; and if it have occasionally reminded me of 
the one great propitiatory sacrifice for sin and trans- 

* Editor of the " British Friend," who reprobated Mr. Barton for 
nsiug the word " November" in poetry, &c. 



82 LETTERS. 

gression — that I hope is a thought to be reverently cher- 
ished, even if suggested by what some may superstitiously 
regard. Such, my dear friend, is the history of my little 
crucifix. Fare thee well, and try to think of it and me 
with charity. 



[Referring to an order he had sent to Carlisle to repair his grand- 
father's tomb, as related in another letter.] 

8 7710, 1.5, 1846. 

PERUArs our good friend demurs as to the pro- 
priety of a Quaker poet having aught to do with church 
grave-stones. On this point, however, should such be his 
idea, he is mistaken. I could wish grave-stones were 
allowed in our own burial-grounds, a discretionary power 
being vested in proper quarters as to what is allowed to 
be put on thom. Confine it, and welcome, to name, date, 
and age; rigidly interdict all flattery and folly. But I 
own it would feel pleasant to me to know the precise spot 
where those I have loved lay. I never feel quite sure 
which is my Lucy's* grave out of the family row. That 
I might have no doubt which was my mother Jesup's, I 
planted a tree at the foot of it, which is now three times my 
own height. 

* His wife's. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 83 



9 mo, 12, 1846. 

And now, my dear old friend of above twenty 
years' standing, I have two points on which I must try to 
right myself in thy good opinion — the swansdown waistcoat, 
and the bell, with the somewhat unquakerly inscription of 
"Mr. Barton's bell" graven above the handle thereof. I 
could not well suppress a smile at both counts of the indict- 
ment, for both are true to a certain extent, though I do not 
know that I should feel at all bound to plead guilty to either 
in a criminal one. It is true that prior to my birthday, now 
nearly two years ago, my daughter, without consulting me, 
did work for me, in worsted work, as they do now-a-days for 
slippers, a piece of sempstress-ship or needle-craft, forming 
the forepart of a waistcoat ; the pattern of which, being rather 
larger than I should have chosen, had choice been allowed 
me, gave it some semblance of the striped or flowered waist- 
coats which for aught I know may be designated as swans- 
down; but the colours, drab and chocolate, were so very 
sober, that I put it on as I found it, thinking no evil, and 
wore it, first and week-days, all last winter, and may probably 
through the coming one, at least on week-days. It is cut in 
my wonted single-breasted fashion ; and as my coUarless coat, 
coming pretty forward, allows no great display of it, I had 
not heard before a word of scandal, or even censure on its 
unfriendliness. Considering who worked it for me, I am not 
sure had the royal arms been worked thereon, if in such 
sober colours, but I might have worn it, and thought it less 
fine and less fashionable than the velvet and silk ones which 
I have seen, ere now, in our galleries, and worn by Friends 
of high standing and undoubted orthodoxy. But I attach 
comparatively little importance to dress, while there is 



84 LETTERS. 

enough left in the tout ensemble of the costume to give aiuple 
evidence that the wearer is a Quaker. So much for the 
waistcoat ; now for the bell ! I live in the back part of the 
Bank premises, and the approach to the yard leading to my 
habitat, is by a gate, opening out of the principal street or 
thoroughfare through our town. The same gate serving for 
an approach to my cousin's kitchen door, to a large bar-iron 
warehouse in the same yard, and I know not what beside. 
Under these circumstances some notification was thought 
needful to mark the bell appertaining to our domicile, though 
I suppose nearly a hundred yards oflf, and the bell-hanger, 
without any consultation with me, and without my know- 
ledge, had put these words over the handle of the bell, in a 
recess or hole in the wall by the gate-side, and they had stood 
there unnoticed and unobserved by me for weeks, if not 
months, before I ever saw them. When aware of their being 
there, having had no concern whatever in their being put 
there, having given no directions for their inscription, and not 
having to pay for them, I quietly let them stand ; and, until 
thy letter reached me, I have never heard one word of com- 
ment on said inscription as an unquakcrly one, for I believe 
it is well known among all our neighbours that the job of 
making two houses out of one was done by contract with 
artisans not of us, who executed their commission according 
to usual custom, without taking our phraseology into account. 
Such, my good friend, are the simple facts of the two cases. 



TO MRS. SUTTON, 85 



9 mo, 24, 1846. 

* * * I SHALL not be in any danger of 
quarrelling with thee for thy kind and well-meant wishes 
and efforts to keep me, as far as in thee lies, in the sim- 
plicity of the truth, but I doubt whether, without more 
putter and bother than the thing is worth, the unlucky 
"Mr." can well be obliterated. The very idea of its being 
a title of flattery, so used, had not occurred to me, so I 
certainly had not felt flattered by it. But if ever the 
bell handle, or plate connected with it, should have to be 
repaired, a casualty which the jerks of idle runaways may 
realize during our winter evenings, I promise thee I will 
have the obnoxious letters removed for thy sake. 



10 mo, 23, 1847. 

TuppER and his Proverbial Philosophy are old 
familiar acquaintance of mine. There is good stuff" in the 
book, but it strikes me as too wordy and inflated in its 
diction ; and is of a non-descript class in literature — 
neither prose nor poetry. Thou wilt say, perhaps, the 
same objection applies to our old favourite, " The Economy 
of Human Life;" but that, though Oriental in its style, 
like the language of the Old Testament, affects much less 
of the rhythm and flow of vei-se. Besides, I have a notion 



86 LETTERS. 

though I have not seen it now for many years, it was 
originally put forth as a pretended ancient MS., which 
may be an excuse for its pomp of phrase. Yet even 
Dodsley is far less inflated than Tuppcr. But compare 
either with the phraseology of Scripture, of which both 
are to a certain extent imitations, and their artificiality is 
very striking. The longer I live, Mary, the more I love a 
simple and natural tone of expression, and the more I 
eschew all sorts of Babylonish dialects. Tupper does better 
to dip into, and shines in quotation ; but, like all artificial 
writers, is apt to become wearisome if long dwelt on. 



Tliou hast inquired of me whether my views on 
Baptism and the Supper are at all changed or modified by 
the precept or example of any of our seceding Friends. 
Not a whit. In my view, any trust or reliance in the 
merely ceremonial rite of Water Baptism is so completely 
a being brought into bondage to the beggarly elements, as 
to be incompatible with the glorious liberty and entire 
spirituality of the Gospel dispensation. Touching what 
is called the Sacrament, or Ordinance, of the Supper, 
though I am surprised that any who might have been 
hoped to have been made living partakers, spiritual com- 
municants, of its substance and reality, should deem its 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 87 

outward literal observance obligatory; yet when I look at 
the direct command given by our Lord to his immediate 
followers — "This do in remembrance of me;" and when I 
consider that the early Christians, in some form or other, 
did so observe it; I can quite understand the view taken 
of the institution by the great body of our Christian bre- 
thren; I can, I hope, appreciate the feeling with which it 
is often administered and received; nor do I doubt, as a 
means of grace, it may be blessed in its use to many pious 
and devout communicants. So far I can go. But I do 
not the less firmly believe that our early Friends were 
rightly led and guided when they decided on its disuse as 
an essential article of faith, or a necessary part of Christian 
practice. The fearful liability to abuse; the extreme 
danger of its degenerating into a mere form ; the endless 
and vinprofitable disputations to which the mode and man- 
ner of its observance have given rise; the mere fallacious 
and groundless trust which its mere outward participation 
is apt to engender in thoughtless and ignorant minds ; all 
these considerations are conclusive with me that it was 
part of a day, and dispensations of " meats and drinks, and 
divers washings," shadowy rites, and typical observances, 
out of which our devout and godly forefathers were called 
to a more pure and simple and spiritual faith aud practice : 
and thus believing, I think they did well and wisely in 
rejecting it as binding on us. 



LETTERS. 



Touching thy question of membersbip by birth- 
right; -while I admit the objections to it are plausible, still 
more serious ones present themselves, in my view, to a de- 
parture from our present rule. The scceders, if I under- 
stand their objections aright, state that birthright con- 
ferring membership is one cause why many of our Society 
grow up in a sort of traditional faith, believing they hardly 
know what or why. In by-gone days there might be 
much truth in this; at least, to a certain extent, I believe 
it was the case in many instances ; but in the present age 
of discussion and controversy, except in a very few cases, 
where Friends are very remotely secluded from general 
intercourse, this can scarcely be the case. Very few of 
our young Friends can be ignorant of the conflict of 
opinion which has been called forth, and still fewer I think 
could be found who must not, in some way or other, have 
been put upon inquiring and thinking for themselves. 
The objections to considering none as members who have 
not attained an age warranting an application fi-om them 
on the gi-ound of real conviction to be received as such, 
strike me as serious and formidable. It must, as far as I 
see aught of its practical working, put all our young people 
out of the pale of our discipline; for what valid right or 
plausible plea could we have to extend admonition, or ex- 
ercise a vigilant and affectionate oversight with respect to 
parties not in membership, consequently hardly amenable 
to the rules of a Society to which they had not yet joined 
themselves? This step, as it appears to me, must set our 
younger Friends free from all restraint, save that of par 
rental or preccptoral authority and affection; very good 
and very excellent in themselves, I own, but often re- 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 89 

quiring sympathy and aid from all available means. 
Where parents and preceptors were themselves indiflferent 
to the testimonies held by Friends, in their own case, is it 
at all likely they would enforce, I mean by persuasion, 
their observance, on the part of those intrusted to their 
charge ? As we are now situated, supposing our young 
people to incline to go to balls, concerts, plays, &c., even 
where their parents are by no means strict Friends, the 
thing is not often attempted, because such or such a one 
would hear of it, and it is hardly worth the fuss which 
would be made about it. Mind, I am not saying this is 
like a renunciation of the same gratification on principle ; 
but it may, for a brief and critical period of life, so far 
answer a good end that a young person shall be kept out 
of the way of much that might contaminate, and could 
not profit : with riper years the temptation to such grati- 
fications may be weaker, more serious thoughts may have 
been awakened, better feelings called into action. But, not 
to confine our view to indulgences which sober and serious 
Christians of other denominations often deny themselves 
on religious principle, let us look further. As matters 
now stand, our young folks being all members, none of 
them could on the mere impulse of a sensibility very com- 
mon to youth be led to a participation in the ordinances 
now represented as so essential, without the case being 
brought under notice. But what imaginable right could 
Friends as a Society have to interdict a participation in such 
rites to persons not within its own pale, and owing no alle- 
giance, positive or even implied, to our laws and testimonies ? 
Would not the ready and natural answer of a young person 
if spoken to under such circumstances be, " I am not a 
member; of course I commit no sort of inconsistency, nor 
can I infringe a law to which I am in no way subject." 
8* 



90 LETTERS. 

When I consider the extremely plausible light in which it 
is easy to set both IJaptism and the Supper, as essential 
rites, and especially enjoined : this too perhaps to the 
young, ardent, and susceptible, first awakened to serious 
thought and reflection : I cannot think it prudent, nor do 
I think we are called on, to relax any of the rules of our 
discipline during a period when I believe their influence 
is most salutary. I would not for one moment forbid the 
use of these rites to any who have attained an age to en- 
able them to decide on their essentiality — if they then 
deem them imperative, let them by all means act on that 
conviction. But let us not expose the minds of mere 
children to be prematurely tampered with, and drawn 
away from our own simple and spiritual faith — if we hold 
that faith in earnest and honest sincerity ourselves. Such 
are a few of my thoughts on the subject thou hast pro- 
posed : I have not time to dress them up in good set 
terms, or to enforce them by half the arguments which I 
think would fully justify and support them. 



I MUST either have expressed myself ill, or thou 
must have misunderstood me, or made the remark in thine 
from memory, if the passage which struck thee in mine of 
there being very little difiercnce between our seceding 
Friends and lis, be really of my penning. I might say 
that I felt quite unable to define what the belief or doctrine 
of our seceders were; or to what extent they differ from 
us, except a.s to what they term ordinances. But a differ- 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 91 

ence on this point alone, is not in my view a little one. I 
have no sort of controversy with the good and the pious 
of other sects who have always thought it their duty to 
participate in such rites; I have no desire to dispute with 
those who, amongst us, thinking such things to be essential, 
quietly leave us and join in religious profession with those 
who practise them. But I have an abiding, and for aught I 
can see, an interminable controversy with those who would 
still hold their membership with us by forcing on us the 
observance of these rites, and mixing them up with our sim- 
pler and spiritual creed as part and parcel of a new-fangled 
system which they are pleased to call Evangelical Quakerism. 
I get puzzled and bewildered among these nondescript novel- 
ties ; a sprinkling, or water-sprinkled, sacrament-taking Qua- 
ker is a sort of incongruous medley I can neither classify nor 
understand. Of their peculiar doctrines on other topics, how 
far they hold the exclusive dogmas of Calvin, I know not, 
nor do I care much to agitate such questions ; of the univer- 
sality of the offer of Divine grace to all, I cannot doubt with 
the Bible before me ; and to suppose it offered where it has 
from eternity been immutably decreed it could not or would 
not be accepted, seems to my poor head and heart incompati- 
ble with Divine truth and goodness. But I have no wish, at 
fifty-four, to bother myself with splitting straws. " The 
mighty mystery of the atonement I desire to accept with 
humble and grateful reverence, to lay hold on the promises 
held out to me as a sinner, in the propitiatory sacrifice of the 
Redeemer, to believe his own gracious promise that ' whoso 
cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' " And with 
the conviction of these blessed truths, I would not less desire 
to unite a firm and unshaken faith in the offices and agency 
of the Holy Spirit, its immediate teaching and guidance, its 
consolations and supports. Such are the fundamental truths, 



92 LETTERS. 

as I hold thcra, of my Christian creed ; for I cling to the 
old-fasbioncd Quaker profession of them, as having fewer 
adjuncts of human invention to lessen their simple, spiritual, 
and, as I think, Scriptural beauty, than any other. I hope 
this brief and hasty summary may enable thee to get a 
glimpse of my faith, such as it is, and so far as I know it 
myself. But of all things I dislike the argumentative habit 
of critically dissecting every item of one's belief, and the 
systematizing and theorizing now so much in vogue. Pure 
spiritual true religion seeks not to darken counsel, deaden 
feeling, and dim true light, by words without knowledge; 
and such seems to me the unprofitable tendency of no small 
portion of the teaching, whether oral or written, of our 
modern would-be instructors. 



How any sort of confusion of ideas should exist 
among the real living and spiritually-minded among our 
own Society on this topic,* is a marvel and a mystery to 
me ; or would be, had not my own heart long ago taught 
me how very soon our spiritual perceptions become dim 
and doubtful, our best feelings deadened, and our judg- 
ment bewildered, when in our own strength and wisdom 
we set about forming systems and codes, and creeds of our 
own, classifying and arranging, according to our individual 

* The comparative importance of tlie Spirit, or the written word. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 93 

appreciation of their importance, truths and principle? 
ALL revealed in their elementary simplicity by the hol^ 
Tolume, all enforced by the teachings of God's Holy 
Spirit, and all meant, as I believe, to be gradually de- 
veloped and unfolded to our individual states, uses, and 
needs, could we but content ourselves, with childish siin 
plicity of heart, to accept them as God has given them 
Taking with reverent and truthful humility his outward 
manifestation of his word as given forth in Scripture; ac- 
cepting gratefully his offered gift of the Spirit, and pray 
ing for its increase, that we may more and more, through 
its aid, understand those lively oracles of which it is the 
source; and thereby coming to know in our individual 
experience, that all the needful truths and essential doc- 
trines revealed in the one, and unfolded, and enforced, and 
immediately applied by the other, must of necessity form 
one harmonious whole, in which, when we are aright in 
structed, we shall see no discrepancies or inconsistencies 
But it is the natural tendency of plunging into contro 
versy about the comparative importance of dogmas and 
doctrines, to narrow our views, and to make us, in our 
eagerness to defend what appears at the moment of pri- 
mary importance, regard that one topic or truth as the one 
thing needful — a term only to be applied to the whole, 
undivided, and harmonious gospel of our Lord, in its full 
completeness. 



94 LETTERS 



I DO not like to see one Di\ane gift pitted against 
another, as if there were, ought to be, or could be, any rivalry 
between what must be in their very essence harmonious. 
I hold with the old faith of our early Friends, who were 
content thankfully to receive the Scriptures as a blessed 
and invaluable revelation of God's will; yet so far from 
understanding them to be the sole and Jinal one, I conceive 
that one main end and intent of their being given forth, 
was to inculcate the knowledge of that Spirit whence they 
themselves proceeded, to guide us to its teachings, to in- 
struct us to wait for its influences, under a conviction that 
without its unfoldings even the lively oracles of God's 
Holy Writ may be to us a dead letter. If I am told there 
is a danger of these views leading to a fanatical trust in a 
fanatical inspiration of our ownj I can only reply, that I 
can see no such danger while we seek such aid and guid- 
ance in simplicity, godly sincerity, and deep humility. 
Thus, I believe, were our early predecessors eminently led 
about and instructed. 



It was said by one of the early Fathers of the 
Christian church in his day of some who then with- 
drew themselves, " They went out from us because they 
were not of us;" and the same may be said, I think, 
of many of the more active and conspicuous among our 
modem scpai-atists. They knew not for theuiselvcs ex- 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 95 

perimentally and individually the life and power of that 
principle by which Friends wore first gathered to be a people. 
For it never was, and never can be, attained by mere birth- 
right, though outward membership is ; nor can it descend by 
inheritance. I can easily conceive how some have been led 
to take the part they have taken. Born and educated among 
us, the latter perhaps at a time when religious instruction was 
less thoixght of than it ought to have been, they have grown 
up as young people. Friends in name and profession, but 
without ever having been grounded even in the elements of 
our peculiar principles. In some instances I know individuals 
of this class, living perhaps in small meetings, and not often 
brought into intimate acquaintance or cordial intercourse with 
the more excellent of our body ; they have been first taught 
to think and feel seriously by accidentally falling into the 
way of religious characters not of our Society. In many such 
there is a warmth of ardour, an exuberance of zeal, a prone- 
ness to activity in the use of means, and a life in religious 
converse — all very sincere and cordial I believe on the part 
of many who indulge in them — which is naturally more 
taking to a newly-awakened mind than the quiet manner, and 
patient waiting, and silent retirement, which our views of 
the spirituality of religion would recommend as likely to con- 
duce to a real and eflFectual growth iu grace. Take the case 
of any ordinary young person first awakened to serious 
thought and feeling, and supposing him or her to open their 
minds to not a few of our good Friends, very worthy and 
estimable folks in their way, but not exactly the sort of per- 
sons to deal with minds first awakened to religious sensibility 
— the passive nothingness, the patient waiting, the searching 
after retirement, the abstinence from creaturely activity, which 
such might probably recommend, must come recommended 
with great kindness and evident deep feeling to give it the 



96 LETTERS. 

least hope of success j the least appearance of any frigidity 
or formality to a ruind thus excited would close the door at 
once. Supposing, however, such a convert to fall at such a 
critical period in the way of one of our Beaconites, may we 
not fairly anticipate a line of conduct prescribed much more 
likely to be acceptable — the study of the Bible — the belief 
of full, entire, and complete justification by faith alone — 
means excellent in themselves, rightly and well understood, 
would seem, no doubt, to such a one, a more compendious 
mode of faith, and to the zeal of a new convert a more 
inviting one. I do not say that a pious and upright inquirer 
might not, by following this counsel, come to the attainment 
of a sound Christian ; but he (one f) may become an adept in 
Biblical knowledge without imbibing its Divine spirit ; and, 
from a fear of mysticism and fanaticism, run into a theory 
quite as dangerous. For while I freely admit the doctrine 
of justification by faith as I find it simply and abstractedly 
given in the gospel, I cannot think it one to be exclusively 
enforced on the believer in all the stages of his Christian 
progress. ]Milk for babes, and meat for those of a riper and 
more mature growth, is, I believe, the diet prescribed not only 
by gospel wisdom, but emphatically inculcated by the simple 
spiritual teaching of its Divine Founder. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 97 

Dost thou remember a beautiful passage in 
Cowper — 

" Stillest streams 

Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird 
That flutters least is longest on the wing." 

So I believe it may be said in our religious Society, and, 
in fact, in any other denomination, that the most truly 
influential members, those who give to the body of which 
they form the life and essence, to speak humanly, its form 
and pressure, and stamp on it the impression which proves 
it not counterfeit, but sterling; these are not always the 
most prominent to the eye of superficial observation, and 
are seldom found amongst the loudest talkers ; they are rather 
silent preachers, by the practical and incontrovertible ex- 
position of their lives and conversations, that they have 
not followed, nor are following, cunningly devised fables, 
but are partakers of that living and eternal substance, 
which is in fact the true life of religion in and under every 
name. In ordinary times such pursue, for the most part, 
the quiet and unobtrusive tenor of their way, doing each, 
in his or her own little sphere, whatever their hands find 
to do, but with so little display, that their hidden worth is 
scarce known, perhaps even to many of their own fellow 
professors, until circumstances or events out of the ordinary 
track call on them to throw their weight into the scale one 
way or the other. Let a crisis arise, however, or an 
emergency occur, when the Master thinks fit to call them 
forward, or His cause demands their support, and it is 
wonderful how their influence is brought to bear on the 
right side, and how silently, yet overwhelmingly powerful 
that influence is rendered through the overruling provi- 
dence of Divine grace. Of such working lees, my good 
9 



98 LETTERS. 

friend, it is my faith that our little hive possesses no small 
number. But my sheet is all but full. All I -wish is, that 
we may each and all try to keep our proper places, exer- 
cise patience, forbearance, and love towards and with each 
other, and then I trust all will be well. There is always 
this risk in controversy, we are very apt to misunderstand 
each other, and not very prone rightly to know ourselves ; 
but if vital and fundamental principles are to be attacked, 
they must be defended ; may it be in the spirit of meek- 
ness and love. 



The more I see, or rather hear, of this lament- 
able controversy, the more I am convinced that they who 
first agitated it acted unwisely and unwell in doing so. I 
cannot believe that to have had a right origin which by its 
natural and almost inevitable results tends to disunion, 
disputation, and all uncharitableness. 



The Society itself, so far as I have any sight, 
sense, and feeling of its faith and practice, has in no re- 
spect falsified its own original and fundamental doctrines. 
Practically indeed we may not be, and I fear we are not, 
the plain, simple, single-hearted, self-denying people that 
our forefathers were. The absence of all that can be 
called persecution; the substitution of the world's respect 
for its scorn, of its smiles for its frowns; the progress of 



J 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 99 

refinement and luxury, and many other operating causes of a 
much less exceptionable nature ; have gradually more assimi- 
lated the bulk of our Society to the mass of our fellow-Chris- 
tians. But I am not at all aware that, in our collective 
capacity as a body, we have avowedly departed from the faith 
of our ancestors. Nor do I find that our seceding brothers 
and sisters leave us under the plea of any such departure, but 
simply because we refuse to give up the principles and prac- 
tices, the declaration and adoption of which formed the rally- 
ing point and starting post of our founders, humanly speaking, 
as a section of the Christian church. 



In science and art the progress of discovery may 
bring much to light, and the wisest of men in these matters 
may have much to learn and ts unlearn. But in the grand 
and essential truths of the gospel, I see not why our fore- 
fathers were not as likely to be right as we can be. I know 
of no fresh sources of religious instruction, no undiscovered 
or undeveloped fountain of religious knowledge to which we 
in our day can have access, from which our pious ancestors 
were excluded. And I am yet to learn what oracles of 
Divine truth we can consult, with which they were not 
familiar. They had the outward and written word, in which 
the will of God is recorded, in their hands, and they certainly 
were not likely to be strangers to that inspeaking word, the 
voice of his Spirit ; that inshining light which enlightens 
every regenerate Christian, to which they were the fii'st 
peculiarly to appeal. 



100 LETTERS 



In all human institutions, whether political or 
ecclesiastical, there is a rise and fall — a state of infancy, 
manhood, and, at lust, of declension and decrepitude; but 
in proportion as the bond of union cementing them is in- 
ward and spiritual, they are likely to be transitory or en- 
during. It is this spirit, or li^•iug essence of religion 
itself, without reference to forms and modes which are 
of necessity ephemeral, that forms the life and power on 
which the church of Christ is based, and by which its 
living members of all sects, names, and denominations are 
united in one fellowship. It may therefore be hoped for 
and believed that, as far as any Society has been led from 
types and shadows, external rites and ceremonies, to seek 
a more spiritual faith, its purity and permanency are in 
some degree pledged by its simplicity. It has l^ong been 
my belief and conviction that the principles of Friends, 
rightly understood, form the most pure, most simple, and 
most spiritual code of faith and doctrine which the Chris- 
tian world exhibits ; and, under this belief, I can entertain 
no fear of the decline or overthrow of them. Whether 
the body first raised up to propagate them, or their suc- 
cessors to whom the maintenance of these testimonies is 
now intrusted, may have their name as a people perpetu- 
ated I cannot presume to anticipate, but for the prin- 
ciples themselves I entertain no apprehension, because I 
believe them to be those of the everlasting and uncliauge- 
able gospel of Christ. Nor do I think that the time is yet 
come for us to be blotted out of the list of those sections 
of the universal chiu-ch of Christ, which constitute all to- 
gether his temple on earth. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 101 



All that I have heard, seen, or read, only 
strengthens my attachment to old-fashioned Quakerism. I 
do not mean that in every iota of manners, habits, and 
practice, we are bound to follow the example of those who 
lived more than a century and a half ago, when the So- 
ciety was in a very different state. ' But in all essential 
points of faith and doctrine I am more and more convinced 
those old worthies were substantially sound. 



I BELIEVE the unity of the one Catholic and 
comprehensive church to be a unity of spirit and feeling, 
and not only to be perfectly compatible with many diversi- 
ties of opinion as to particular doctrines, rites, and cere- 
monies, but entirely independent of them. I should be 
sorry not to feel somewhat of that unity with many from 
whom I differ widely in many and various respects. Who 
but must feel it for Kempis ? yet this by no means implies 
any accordance with the Romish Ritual of which, I be- 
lieve, he was a docile and dutiful votary — though he lived 
and wrote far beyond the letter and rule of his professed 
creed, in a spirit of the most pure, enlightened, and 
spiritual Christianity. 



9* 



TO MR. CLEMISHA. 



[This correspondent travelled about England in the way of business, 
and wrote to Mr. B. from various places in the course of his jour- 
ney, specifying always when and where an answer might reach 
him on the road : a sort of " Bo-pccp" correspondence, as Mr. 
B. wrote to him — "When I say 'Peep' at one place, thy 'Bo 
comes from another,"] 

London, 7 mo, 8, 1843. 

I NEVER fancy to myself that much, if aught, of 
personal identity can hang about folks in London; that 
they can see, hear, smell, or think, talk, and feel, as peo- 
ple do in the country. I can obscurely understand how 
Cockneys born and bred, or such as are even long resident 
in Cockaigne, and therefore native to that strange element, 
may in course of time acquire a sort of borrowed nature, 
and by virtue of it, a kind of artificial individuality ; but I 
never was in London long enough to get at this, and have 
always seemed, when there, not to he myself^ but very 
much as if I were walking in a dream, or like a bit of sear 
weed blown off some cliff or beach, and drifting with the 
current — one knew not why or how. In a coffee-room, 
up one of those queer long dark inn yards, I have felt more 

(102; 



TO MR. C L E iM I S n A . 103 

like myself; — there is more of quiet ; folks often sit in 
boxes apart, and talk in a kind of under-tone ; or when they 
do not, the united eflfect of so many voices becomes a sort 
of indistinct hum or buzz, relieved at intervals by the 
swinging to and fro of the coffee-room door, the clatter of 
plates, the jingle of glasses, or the rustle of the newspaper 
often turned over. I have spent an hour or two after my 
fashion in this way, at the Four Swans, Belle Sauvage, 
Bolt in Tun, Spread Eagle, and other coach houses, by no 
means unpleasantly, seemingly reading the paper, and sip- 
ping my tea or coffee, wine or toddy, but really catching 
some amusing scraps of the talk going on round, and specu- 
lating on the characters of the talkers. But the greatest 
luxury London had to give, is gone with my poor old 
friend Allan Cunningham. It was worth soraethins: to 
steal out of the din and hubbub of crowded streets into 
those large, still, cathedral-like rooms of Chantrey's, popu- 
lous with phantom-like statues, or groups of statues as 
large or larger than life ; some tinted with dust and time, 
others of spectral whiteness, but all silent and solemn; to 
roam about among these, hearing nothing but the distant 
murmur of rolling carriages, now and then the clink of the 
workman's chisel in some of the yards or workshops, but, 
chiefly the low, deliberate, often amusing, and always in- 
teresting talk of honest Allan, in broad Scotch. A. morning 
of this sort was well worth going up to London on pui-- 
pose for. 



104 LETTERS. 



11 mo, 16, 1843. 

I AM not a little diverted Dy thy taking-on 
somewhat about the irksome monotony and confinement 
of a fortnight's spell at the desk and figure work, and 
seeming to thyself like a piece of machinery in conse- 
quence. I have really been so unfeeling as to have a 
hearty lq,ugh about the whole affair. Why, man ! I took 
my seat on the identical stool I now occupy at the desk, to 
the wood of which I have now well-nigh grown, in the 
third month of the year 1810; and there I have sat on 
for three and thirty blessed years, beside the odd eight 
months, without one month's respite in all that time. I 
believe I once had a fortnight ; and once in about two years, 
or better, I get a week ; but all my absences put together 
would not make up the eight odd months. I often wonder 
that my health has stood this sedentary probation as it 
has, and that my mental faculties have survived three and 
thirty years of putting down figures in three rows, cast- 
ing them up, and carrying them forward ad infinitum. 
Nor is this all — for during that time, I think, I have put 
forth some half dozen volumes of verse ; to say nothing of 
scores and scores of odd bits of verse contributed to 
Annuals, Periodicals, Albums, and what not; and a cor- 
respondence implying a hundred times the writing of all 
these put together : where is the wonder that on the verge 
of sixty I am somewhat of a prematurely old man, with 
odds and ends of infirmities and ailments about me, which 
at times are a trial to the spirits and a weariness to the 
flesh ? But all the grunibliug in the world would not 
mend the matter, or help me, so I rub and drive on as well 
as I can. 



TO MR. CLEMISHA. 105 



6 7no, 13, 1844. 

I AM not over-fond of jlolemicals ; they are almost 
as bad as galenicals. How our tastes alter with added 
years and enlarged experience ! I was once an eager dis- 
putant about matter and spirit, free-will and necessity, 
Unitarianism and Trinitarianism, and almost all other 
isms ; and was in a fair way of becoming a sceptic. Hap- 
pily I found out, -I hope in time to avert such a catastrophe, 
that a man never stands so fair a chance of making a fool 
of himself as he does when he begins to fancy himself 
wiser than all around him. It is no uncommon thing 
to find a man overtaken in liquor taking vast pains to 
convince you he is perfectly sober; I require no further 
confirmation of his being drunk, or verging that way; for 
a man who is sober, seldom, if ever, takes the trouble to 
prove the fact. In like manner, if I meet any one who 
gives himself airs for having enlarged views, liberal prin- 
ciples, and freedom from all the vulgar prejudices by 
which common minds are enslaved, I have a lurking dis- 
trust that he is, without knowing it, a narrow-minded 
bigot, and very likely to have taken up worse prejudices 
than those which he has been trying to shake off. 



TO MISS H- 



7 mo, 29, 1840. 

Do not let thy zeal for a Church* which I have 
a lurking love for myself, inasmuch as Izaak Walton's 
worthies all belonged to it, put thee in any unnecessary 
fright about my dreaming of making a convert of thee 
from said Church to any ism of my own. In the first 
place, my dear, I am not one of those who would compass 
sea and land to make proselytes — in the second, I am by 
no means sure that my ism would suit either thy mental 
or physical temperament as it does mine — and, thirdly, 
I have my suspicions whether I do not like thee best as a 
Churchwoman, always assuming thy honours to be borne 
with meekness, gentleness, and chanty. Day, the author 
of Sandford and Mcrton, once fell in love with Anna 
Seward; but having more of the Spartan than of the 
dandy in him. Miss S. did not like his manners, and told 
him so : — poor Day went to France to polish — came back, 
and resumed his suit ; when Miss S. frankly told him she 
liked Tom Day the blackguard better than Tom Day the 
beau — so he "took nothing," as the lawyers phrase it, by 
this motion. 

* The Church of England. 

(106) 



TO MISS H . 107 



5 mo, 20, 1841. 

I FORGET wliether I told thee in my last of my 
going to the funeral of a very sweet, interesting girl of 
nineteen, at my favourite village of Playford, a fortnight 
ago. She was the third daughter of two valued friends of 
mine; her mother a very old friend of mine from child- 
hood, and, till her marriage, a Quaker. As her religious 
principles were unaltered by marriage, though she went 
to church with her husband and chUdren regularly, none 
of their children were baptized in infancy, their mother 
wishing their joining in full church membership should 
be their own act when they were able to think for them- 
selves. As they have grown up to an age capable of de- 
ciding, I believe they have so united themselves to your 
Church. This lovely girl had done so only about a month 
prior to the rupture of a blood-vessel, which brought on 
rapid consumption, and carried her off in a fortnight. I 
went over to the funeral by invitation, and certainly of all 
the funerals I ever attended it was one of the most affecting, 
from the oneness of feeling and the audible manifestations 
of grief on the occasion. The parties who had been her 
sponsors at baptism a few weeks before were, Clarkson the 
Abolitionist, and his widowed daughter. On our arrival 
at the little village church I found them quietly seated in 
their pew, into which I went. But when the bier had to 
pass us up the aisle, the poor old man, now verging on eighty 
years of age, was so broken down that he had no alternative 
but to give way to it, and in the emphatic language of 
Scripture he. fairly lifted up his voice and wept aloud. 
The fixmily of the deceased occupied the next pew, and a 
twin-brother, who had with great effort kept his grief 



108 LETTERS. 

under some control, soon gave way ; — even the clergyman, 
by bis low and tremulous voice as be began tbe lesson, 
seemed hardly equal to his task. But as his voice became 
stronger and firmer, tranquillity was restored. By the 
grave-side, however, the scene again became quite over- 
powering. A chair had been set at the head of the grave 
for poor old Clarkson, very considerately, but he had to 
be supported in it, and the audible, uncontrollable expres- 
sion of sorrow on every hand was truly heart-touching. 
When the usual service was ended, the clergyman stated 
that it was the wish of the deceased, or rather of her rela- 
tives, that a little hymn which had ever been a gi'cat 
favourite of hers should bo sung on this occasion, and he 
had much pleasure in complying with the request. After 
a few minutes, way was made for the children of the 
village school, which this estimable girl had almost made 
and managed, to come up to the grave-side — about twenty 
or twenty-five little things, with eyes and cheeks red with 
crying : I thought they could never have found tongues, 
poor things ; but once set oflF, they sung like a little band 
of cherubs. What added to the efiect of it, to me, was that 
it was a little almost forgotten hymn of my own, written 
years ago; which no one present, but myself, was at all 
aware of. 



TO MISS H . 109 



[On some ChurcIi-of-England zealots.] 

7 7no, 26, 1840. 

Such men are like the good prophet who was 
very jealous for the Lord Grod of hosts, and believed that 
he only was left to serve Him ; unto whom the Lord's own 
words were, " Yet I have left me seven thousand in 
Israel, who had not bowed the knee to Baal." And thus I 
believe it is now-a-days with some of those to whom I now 
refer — they would hardly regard as Christians many who 
conscientiously dissent from the Church of England. I 
regret this for their sakes; but such persuasion on their 
part cannot unchristianize any humble believer in Chi'ist. 
Happily, we shall not in the great day of account sit in 
judgment on one another, but shall all stand before the 
tribunal of One who cannot err, and whose mercy is as 
boundless as his justice is unchangeable. Such, unhappily, 
is (however) the infirmity of our nature, that sometimes, in 
proportion to our own zeal and devotedness to what we 
regard as the voice of God, given forth in his holy word, 
is our interpretation of all who do not read that blessed 
word through our own spectacles. Like those disciples 
of old, who went to the Saviour, saying, "We saw one 
casting out devils in Thy name, and we forbade him, be- 
cause he followeth not us;" — there are those who seem as 
if they never asked themselves touching a professing fel- 
low-Christian differing from themselves in certain points : 
"Does he believe in our one common Master? Does he 
look for salvation through His cross ? Has he been born 
again of His Spirit? Do his life and the pervading tone 
of his spirit bear evidence that he has been with Jesus?" 
10 



110 LETTERS. 

These are not the questions — the one to be first answered 
is, whether he foUowelh us? — "'Tis true 'tis pity: pity 
'tis 'tis true!" But such is human nature, when warped 
by either sectarianism or Churchanity; for this sad spirit 
is by no means monopolized by your ultras on the Church 
side. I have seen some of the old orthodox Dissenters, of 
the genuine crab-stock stamp, woefully leavened with the 
same spirit; and, what made it the worse, some of these 
zealots on both sides were and are persons who, God-ward 
and man-ward, were alike "sans peur et sans reproche;" 
men whose praise was and is justly heard in their respective 
Churches ; only, alas ! men mistaking a part for the whole, 
and taking their own one-sided view of Christianity as the 
only true one, instead of looking at it in its full and entire 
completeness, and imbibing that generous and comprehensive 
spmt which is its very essence. 



TO MARY W , ON THE DEATH OF HER 

FAT HER. 

12 mo, 17, 1842. 

Our poor frail and infirm nature, dear Mary, is 
sadly prone to render us unjust to ourselves, as well as 
unthankful to our heavenly Father, under such trials as 
these. We hear no more the voice we loved — - we see no 
more the form so dear to us — for we still dwell in these 
clay houses : but could we see, as we (for aught we know) 
are seen by those dear to us, who are unclothed of mor- 



TO MISS H . Ill 

tality, should we then say there was no union or com- 
munion left between us and the loved ones who are gone 
but a little, perhaps, before us ? 0, believe it not ! — Thy 
beloved father is as much thy father in his present happi- 
ness as in his past helplessness. 



Aldeburgh, 7 ino, 19, 1844. 

My dear Friend, 

This is our nearest Suffolk watering-place; 
and having had to fag harder than usual of late, I deter- 
mined yesterday to enjoj"- a quiet Sabbath by the sea. So 
I have persuaded Tills to drive me down. We have no 
Quakerly meeting-house here, and, having come down for 
the express purpose of inhaling the sea-breezes, I have 
resolved on getting all I can of them. Tills is gone to 
church, and has left me alone in a delightful room, from 
the window of which I could throw a stone into the German 
Ocean. I have therefore set the window open, drawn the 
table close up to it, and have been seated for the last half- 
hour, lulled by the ripple of the waves on the beach, 
and drawing in at every breath, I hope, some renewal 
of health and spirits for the desk-work of the next fort- 
night. 



TO ELIZABETH AND MARIA C . 

[Describing pictures in his study.] 

5 mo, 14, 1842. 

* * On each side of the window hangs a 
portrait, and a third portrait, of old Chambers, the itiner- 
ant poetaster, hangs in one corner; the last-named was 
painted by Mendham, of Eye, the same self-taught Suf- 
folk artist who painted the Old Man and Child, that hangs 
over the piano. The other two portraits are quite un- 
known to thee, but I hope one day or other to show them 
to thee. They were picked up by E. F in his ex- 
ploratory visits to brokers' shops about town. One is a 
portrait of Stothard the painter, by Northcote, a careless, 
hasty oil sketch, but very cfiFective and pleasing, being, in 
truth, a speaking likeness of a benevolent, happy, and in- 
telligent-looking gentleman of between sixty and seventy, 
perhaps nearer the latter than the former, if, indeed, the 
original were not more than seventy. Any how it is a 
delightful specimen of green old age, placid and cheerful. 
The other, Edward will have to be the portrait, by anti- 
cipation, of Bill Sykes, in Oliver Twist. I call it Peter 
Bell ! The fellow has, I own, a somewhat villanous aspect, 
and his arms are brought forward in a way that con- 
veys a fearful suspicion that his hands, luckily not given, 

(112) 



TO ELIZABETH AND MARIA C . 113 

are , fettered. His elf-locks look as they had never known 
sizzors, (I don't believe I have spelt that word right, but 
I never had to write it before,) but had been hacked away 
with a blunt knife ; hia upper lip and all the lower part of 
the face cannot have been shaven for a week; yet there 
is a touch of compunction about the full, dark, and melan- 
choly eyes, which will not allow me to pronounce the fel- 
low altogether bad. The broker who sold it to Edward, 
called it a portrait of a gamekeeper, and said it was by 
Northcote. I opine it to be by Opie. Fuseli once said 
in his caustic way, that Opie never painted any characters 
so well as cut-throats and villains, and acquitted himself 
best in these when he studied his own features well in a 
glass, before he sat down to his easel; but that was vile 
on the part of Fuseli, for I have seen a portrait of Opie 
without a taint of villany. But be the thing hanging 
before me by whom it may, or a semblance of whom it 
will, I would not take a £10 note for it. It can be no 
fancy sketch; there is a reality about it there is no mis- 
taking. 



7 7no, 16, 1842. 
My dear Libby, 

My good cousin Bessy A , from G , has 

been L.'s guest more than a week, and the day after she 
came I told her that I expected a letter from Libby C — 
on the morrow. On her wanting to know why I expected 
such an arrival, I gave her divers most excellent reasons; 
reasons enough to satisfy the most incredulous. I had 
10* 



114 LETTERS. 

written to thee I know not how long before; I had sent 
thee, and lent thee the world and all of rhymes ; and had 
furnished thee with a subject on which to write more, 
which confessedly took thy fancy, so that I was in daily 
expectation of reaping the fruit, a golden harvest. I put 
her in mind that it was no effort in the world to thee to 
write letters. In short, I argued the point with her in a 
manner the most convincing, but I convinced her not that 
a letter would come on the morrow. Nor did I convince 
L — ; but then, from never writing letters herself, she has 
grown into an unbeliever, or nearly so, that letters are to 
be written. However no letter has come, and I begin to 
grow sceptical myself, not as to the fact of letters being 
writeablc, but as to there being such a person as E. C — 
to write them, unless they are to reach one through 
that mysterious office which used to convey Mrs. Howe's 
letters from the dead to the living. I begin to have the 
oddest and queerest misgivings as to whether that mi- 
gratory life of thine thou hast lived so long, may not have 
attenuated all that was bodily in thee into air, thin air ! 
and when one begins to admit a doubt as to the bodily ex- 
istence of an old correspondent, hosts of thick-coming 
fancies flock in ; if I begin to doubt whether there be now 
a Libby C — in positive and real substance moving about 
on this world of ours, what proof have I there ever was 
such a person? I once read a very ingenious treatise 
written to show that there never was such a person as 
Napoleon ; methinks I could write one full as plausible to 
show that there never was an Elizabeth C — . "While I 
kept on having letters from thee, a sort of vague idea that 
there was some where a somebody, or something, cor- 
poreal, or spiritual, or both, which answered — being so 
addressed or apostrophized, tended to perpetuate the idea 



TO ELIZABETH AND M A R 1 A C 115 

of thy reality. I could thiuk of tlice, as one does of the 
wandering Jew of antiquity, and 1 had thoughts of ad- 
dressing thee in verse, with these lines of Wordsworth for 
my motto — 

" O cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird ? 
Or but a wancleririg voice ! " 

but the voice having ceased to make its responses, I am at 
a loss what to think, or to do ; so I just scribble these lines 
as a sort of last resource, a forlorn hope. 



TO MARIA C . 

10 mo, 17, 1844 

I GO out SO rarely that I am in a state of be- 
wilderment on such occasions, and seem to myself to be as 
one walking in a dream. It can therefore hardly be 
strange that I should have lost thy letter, having at that 
period lost myself. — Don't think it any mark of disrespect 
to thyself, for had I been favoured with one from the 
queen of Sheba, on the theory of Mrs. Elizabeth Kowe's 
" Letters from the Dead to the Living," it would in all 
likelihood have fared no better. How should a man be a 
safe keeper of anything, when, a change of locality having 
clean taken him out of himself, he is no longer, in fact, 
himself. I have been home two days, but I am not my- 
self yet. It will take a good fortnight ere I shall fully 
regain my personal identity. I keep picking up, in lucid 



116 LETTERS. 

intervals, first one and then another of the disjuncfa mem- 
bra of my old self — as children put together a dissected 
puzzle, which they have a vague memory of having put 
together before. But enough of this confused babble. 



Woodbridge, 9 mo, 4, 1844. 

Dear Maria, 

Does not this " look like business ? " as Con- 
stable's men said to my artist friend, when he set up his 
easel behind Flatford Mill, to paint Willy Lett's house. I 
have hardly started thee from our gate, when I am in my 
cabin writing a letter, or letteret, to greet thee at the 
morrow's breakfast table. What I shall find to put into 
it, I will not now stop to ask myself. First and foremost, 
Lucy and the monkey* send all sorts of kind and cordial 
greetings, which they say must be specially welcome after 
the absence of a whole night. Secondly, we are all of us 
charmed with your flying visit, and should have been still 
more charmed had it been a less flying one, for the whole 
thing was such a whirl, there was not time to group you in 
tableaux, far less to study or contemplate you individually ; 
it was for all the world like a peep into a kaleidoscope, 
bcfoi'c the component items have shaped themselves into 
any symmetrical whole ; and so you keep flitting before 
my vision at this moment. GrandiiKuunia prominent one 
minute, then those Tivetshall girls, then Libby and thee. 

* A pet niece. 



TO ELIZABETH AND MARIA C . 117 

Then come Samuel and the Etonian, and Miss B bring- 
ing up the rear. It was certainly a thing to be thankful 
for, to get such a group together, even to have a glimpse 
of, but one can hardly help regretting it was for a glimpse 
only. Old proverbs, 'tis true, say somewhat of welcoming 
the coming and speeding the parting guest. But the latter 
was scarcely necessary when guests speed themselves off so 
rapidly. However, I will not grumble, but try and be most 
thankful for the moment you did give us. 



TO MR. FULCHER, 

EDITOR AND PDBUSnER OP 

THE SUDBURY POCKET BOOK. 

10 mo, 29, 1832. 

Thy packet of Pocket Books, for which I thank 
thee, reached me on Saturday night. 

The poetry, original and selected, is, I think, quite on 
a par with that of former years — with one exception, to 
which I shall refer presently; only, that I think thou art 
somewhat too partial to Robert Montgomery in thy glean- 
ings. Tastes, to be sure, have a proverbial right to differ 
— but I never could get through a volume of Robert's yet. 
But I am too eager to get to my exception in thy original 
'poetry, to say another word about the bard of Satan. 

That exception, then, has reference to the first piece — 
"The dying Infant" — to which I sec thy initials are 
appended, and which I pronounce to be as much superior 
to any piece which has yet appeared in any of thy Pocket 
Books as the poetry of James is to that of Robert Mont- 
gomery. They say poets are loth to award cordial praise 
to the efforts of their contemporaries, but I will praise this 
most heartily ; nor do I at all believe that any one of the 
forthcoming annuals, with all their proud i)rcteuce and 

(118) 



TO MR. FULCHER. 119 

lists of eminent contributors, will have a piece at all ap- 
proaching to it in excellence. Marry, an' thou writest 
such stanzas, I shall fight shy of figuring in thy pages as a 
foil to their Editor's own contributions. I do not know 
that I shall not tui'n Pocket Book Reviewer, for the mere 
purpose of making the poem known ; but it is needless. 
Thine in haste, 

B. B. 

P. S. Don't bother me about politics, which I care not a 
rush about (by comparison) while I can have such nursery 
rhymes to read. 



The following is the very pretty poem to which Mr. 
Barton alludes : — 

THE DYING CHILD. 

" What should it know of t.]calh7'"—JVordsworth. 

Come closer, closer, dear Mamma, 

My heart is filled with fears; 
My eyes are dark, I hear your sobs. 

But cannot see your tears. 

I feel your warm breath on my lips. 

That are so icy cold: — 
Come closer, closer, dear Mamma, 

Give me your h^nd to hold. 

I quite forget my little hymn, 

"How doth the busy bee," 
Which every day I used to say, 

When sitting on your knee. 

Nor can I recollect my prayers 

And, dear Mamma, you know 
That the great God will angry be, 

If I forget them too. 



120 LETTERS. 



And dear Papa, when he comes home, 

Oh will he not be vex'd ? 
" Give us this day our daily bread ;" — 

What is it that comes next? 
" Thine is the kingdom and the power :" — 

I cannot think of more. 
It comes and goes away so fjuick. 

It never did before. 
" Hush, Darling ! you are going to 

The bright and blessed sky. 
Where all God's holy children go. 

To live with him on high." 
But will he love me, dear Mamma, 

As tenderly as you? 
And will rny own Papa, one day, 

Come and live with me too? 
But you must first lay me to sleep, 

VV'hcre Grand-papa is laid ; 
Is not the Churchyard cold and dark. 

And sha'n't I feel afraid ? 
And will you every evening come, 

And say my pretty prayer 
Over poor Lucy's little grave. 

And sec that no one 's there ? 
And promise me, whene'er you die, 

That they your grave shall make 
The next to mine, that I may be 

Close to you when I wake. 

Nay, do not leave me, dear mamma. 

Your watch beside me keep : 
My heart feels cold — the room's all dark ; 

Now lay me down to sleep : — 

And sliould I sleep to wake no more. 

Dear, dear Mamma, good-bye : 
Poor nurse is kind, but oh do you 

Be with me when I die I G. W. F. 



TO MR. FULCHER. 121 



[On proposing a portrait of Jemmy Chambers* as a frontispiece for 
Mr. Fulcher's " Ladies' Pocket Book." 



4 mo, 6, 1838, 

Ladies are somewliat fond of pet oddities. An 
old, tattered, weather-beaten object, like old Chambers, is 
the very thing to take their fancies. Why, when the poor 
wretch was living, and had located himself hereabouts, his 
best friends were the ladies. When they stopped to speak 
to the old man, to be sure, they would get to windward 
of him, as a matter of taste ; for he was a walking dung- 
hill, poor fellow, most of his wardrobe looking as if it had 
been picked off some such repositories, and his hands and 
face bearing evident marks of his antipathy to soap and 



* One of those Edie Ochiltrees, who, by virtue of a Blue Gown, 
or of a genius that will not be gainsaid, are privileged to go about a 
neighbourhood and pick up a scanty subsistence from the charity and 
curiosity of the inhabitants. He was born at Soham, in Cambridge- 
sliire ; but for the latter years of his life wandered about Wood- 
bridge, housing himself at times in a half-ruined cottage called Cold 
Hall, on a hill overlooking the town and river. "His poetry, or 
what he put forth as such," wrote Mr. Barton again, "was poor 
doggerel ; but he himself, and the life he led, are (or were) full of 
poetry ; — now sleeping in a barn, cow-house, or cart-shed ; at others, 
in woods ; but always ' in the eye of nature,' as Daddy Wordsworth 
said of his Cumberland beggar." So Jemmy Chambers went about, 
with two or three dogs for company, one of which he carried in his 
arms. No gift of clothes could induce him to keep them or himself 
clean ; he would not stay in a house that was once fitted up for him. 
He died about twenty-five years ago. The portrait here spoken of 
represents him in his dirty habits as he lived, about to indite some 
of his acrostics, his dogs about him, and he himself a vigorous old 
man with a face like Homer's. 
11 



122 LETTERS. 

water. Yet, though he was the very opposite of a lady's 
lap-dog, curled, combed, washed, and perfumed, he had 
his interest, and it was pretty eflPective too, with the sex. 
His wretched appearance was sure to appeal to their com- 
passion : the solitary wandering life he led, his reputed 
minstrel talent, some little smattering of book-learning, 
which he would now and then display — in short, I might 
write a regular treatise, giving very philosophical reasons 

why C was quite a "lady's man." 

As to thy election politics, I pity thee. Politics of any 
sort, or of all sorts, are not to my taste; but those con- 
nected with electioneering tactics are the most loathsome. 
I would as soon turn in three in a bed with two like 
Chambers, as go through the endurance of an election 

at I or S . Believe me, this is no "fa9on 

de parlor" — for I should be truly sorry a dog of mine, for 
whose respecttibility I felt the least regard, should be put 
in nomination for either place. 



11 7no, 3, 1842. 

This very sudden news of poor Allan Cunning- 
ham's death has both shocked and grieved me. I had a 
letter from him on Friday morning last — I suspect the 
last he wrote — it was in his old cordial, kindly tone, but 
evidently written by an invalid. So I sat me down on 
Saturday night, and wrote him a lotig epistle, urging him 
to come down to Lucy and me for a week, as I was quite 
in hopes a few days' country air and quiet relaxation would 



TO MR. FULCHER. 123 

do him good. I exerted all my powers of persuasion as 
eloquently as I could, of course to no purpose, for at the 
very time I was writing he was dying. And so I have 
lost my old favourite — him whom Charles Lamb used to 
call the "large-hearted Scot" — and a large and warm 
heart he had of his own. It seems to me now as if I 
never would give a fig to go to towu again. The very last 
time I was there, Lucy and I spent a morning at Chan- 
trey's, walking with Allan about those great rooms, each 
of them as big as a little cathedral, and swarming with 
statues — busts and groups — many as large as life — all still 
as death. It was worth somewhat to sit at the foot of 
some grand mass of stone or marble, and hear Allan talk 
about Sir Walter Scott, and Sir Francis, and Wilkie, and 
Burns ; — or when he was still, and we as mute, to look 
round at all those glorious works of art, till we ourselves 
seemed to grow into stone like them ; — and now and then 
the din of the great Babel without, faintly heard there, 
would come upon us like echoes from another world, with 
which we then had no concern. We shall never go there 
more. Sir Francis and Allan, both then living, are now 
dead as the wonders they created ; — the rooms are stripped ; 
— and there's an end of that beautiful chapter in one's 
little life. 



124 LETTERS, 



5 mo, 31, 1843. 
My dear Friend, 

I AM not ovcr-iiiuch taken with cither thy fron- 
tispiece or vignette* — I mean, as subjects for poetry — for, 
as architectural drawings, I own they are very pretty. 
Thou hast very cleverly hinted how they might become 
matters for rhyme — 

" But we, who make no honey, though we sting, 
Poets — are sometimes apt to maul the thing." 

There is somewhat to me bordering on a sad joke in 
building a splendid Corn Exchange, and surmounting it 
by figures wielding the sickle or holding the plough, when 
what is termed the agi-icultural interest, and those con- 
cerned in it, are either ruined or on the brink of being so. 
Again, of your Town Hall, its antiquity is its sole poetical 
feature. After the unenviable notoriety your auld town 
has of late acquired, for what it has witnessed of your elec- 
tion doings, truth to speak, "least said is soonest mended." 
I think, were I a free burgess, I should prefer its senatorial 
honours should, for the present, remain unsung. 

My daughter requests me to say, with her best regards 
to Mrs. F. and thyself, that she earnestly hopes thy 
next will have no blue ink printing in it; for it is a sore 
trial to the eyesight. I have heard many others make the 
same complaint. Whig as I am, I could much sooner for- 
give thee thy bluef politics than thy blue ink; the first 
are no bore to me, for I no more trouble myself about the 

* Sent to liim to rhyme upon, for Mr. Fulchcr's Pocket Book, 
t Blue is tlie colour of tiic Tory party in Suffolk — Yellow, of the 
Whig. 



TO MR. r U L c n E R . 125 

colour of a man's politics, than about the colour of the coat 
he may choose to wear ; but I would not wish thy Pocket 
Book to be unreadable while I write poetry for it. 



1 tno, 21, 1844. 

I HAVE been sad and sick at heart for several 
weeks, owing to the illness and death of an only and fa- 
vourite sister; and just as the raw edge of that wound was 
abating of its first anguish, have another trial to encounter 
which costs me little less of heart-sorrow. My old and dear 

friend Dr. L , who for eight and thirty years has 

been a friend sticking closer than a brother — who closed 
the eyes of my wife, and was one of the first on whom my 
child's first opened — is about to retire from practice as a 
physician, and leave Woodbridge to be nearer his only 
child, now settled in Norwich. I could almost as soon 
have looked for Woodbridge church to have walked off 
as he — the idea that he could live elsewhere, or that 
Woodbridge could go on without him, never once occurred 
to me. Well might old Johnson say, 

"Condemn'd to hope's delusive mine, 
As on we toil from day to day, 
By sudden blast, or slow decline, 
Our social comforts drop away." 

I actually begin to draw comfort from the thought that 
we too must, ere long, drop away too. I seem daily to have 
less to cling to. 
11* 



126 LETTERS 



[On returning to Mr. Fnlcher the proof of some verses for the 
Pocket Book.] 

8 7no, 9, 1844. 

Dear F., 

With the exception of one trifling error in the 
last piece, where the letter n has been put instead of v, I 
see not but that thy typographical bill of fare, now re- 
turned, is faultless. I hope they will not follow in thy 
pages seriatim as they stand on this portentous ballad- 
looking strip of paper, or thy readers will think there is 
no end of me. Sprinkled about, with other folk's rhymes 
filling up the "interstices between the intersections," as 
old Johnson said of network, they may pass. But I had no 
notion I had sent thee such a lot. I have had the curi- 
osity to measure the length of my contribution, and find it 
is a good two feet; besides which, I sent thee "Glemham 
Hall" and some enigmatical rhyme. So I must have sup- 
plied thee with an honest yard of poetry. A fact, I think, 
worthy of being recorded on my tomb-stone, if T should ever 
have one j which, as I am a Quaker, is questionable. 

I told thee when I got that cheque of thee to help me to 
the Constable landscape, that I would work it out. If a 
whole yard of rhyme has not cleared off that score and left 
a trifle for a nest egg, I can only say, the more the shame 
and the greater the pity. But I was bent on making my 
last appearance in thy P. B. with some eclat, for I think 
it grows time for me to make my bow and retire from the 
vain and unprofitable vocation. No man can go on 
scribbling verse for over, and not weary out his readers or 
himself. I begin to feel somewhat of the latter symptoms ; I 
think it very likely thy readers may have gotten the start of 



TO MR. FULCHER. 127 

me. Any how, I think I have earned a furlough for a 
few years to come ; so I give thee fair notice, not to cal- 
culate on my appearing on parade when the drum beats 
again. I shall not feel the less cordial interest in thy 
pretty little annual, or recommend it the less heartily ; but 
I appeal to thee candidly and fearlessly, if three full ap- 
prenticeships ought not to entitle me to make my bow and 
leave the field honourably. Our intercourse, in a friendly 
way, will not, I hope, be in any degree affected by this — I 
should be very sorry indeed it were. Give my kindest 
regards to Mrs. F., and believe me, my old friend, 
Ever affectionately, 

B. B. 



TO MISS BETHAM. 

4 7110, 7, 1845. 

L. IS gone to a concert, and, truth to tell, I was 
sorely tempted to go myself: but it was to be performed 
at the theatre — rather an un-Quakerish locality; and, as 

J and A , though tempted like myself, seemed to 

think it would not do for them to go, I, who have less 
music in my ear, though I flatter myself I have some in 
my soul, could not with decent propriety be the only 
Quaker there. But I had a vast curiosity to go ; for it is 
not an ordinary concert, but performed on certain pieces 
of rock, hewn out of Skiddaw, which, struck with some 
metal instrument, emit sounds of most exquisite sweet- 
ness. We have heard of sermons from stones, but I 
never dreamt of going there for music ; but we live in a 
wondrous age for inventions of all sorts : so I, for one, by 
no means despair of seeing a silken purse made out of a 
sow's ear, in defiance of the proverbial wisdom of our 
ancestors. 



(128) 



TO THE REV. T. W. SALMON. 

8 mo, 9, 1840. 

I HAVE been for two days turning over to me a new 
leaf in the varied volume of human life ; having been sup- 
poenaed as a witness to the Assizes, on a trivial cause, where 
my evidence was deemed requisite. So I have spent two 
days in Court, one in the Crown, or Criminal side, and 
one in the Nisi Prius Court. As I had never before seen 
any thing of the administration of justice, I could not but 
feel greatly interested in the proceedings, more especially in 
those of the Criminal Court. In the other, the only trial I 
heard was a tedious squabble about throwing up the lease of 
a house at Newmarket, in which there appeared to me a 
confused and contradictory mass of evidence on the part of 
near thirty witnesses, and a great waste of words on the part 
of four counsel, with a charge equally bewildering on the 
part of the learned judge — who honestly told the jury at 
the opening of it that he was very thankful the case was in 
their hands, and not in his, for ultimate decision. The 
case on which I went was not called, so for my comfort I 
have to go again to-morrow, and shall be thankful if I then 
get quit of it. I should be sorry to spend any great por- 
tion of my life in such an atmosphere; physically and 
morally, it struck me as any thing but a healthy one. 

(129) 



130 LETTERS. 

Still there is much that is very imposing in many of its 
forms and ceremonies, though blended, I thought, with 
some childish mummery, at least as far as respected the 
dress of the learned judge presiding in the Criminal 
Court; the wig denoting the masculine, and the drapery 
below appearing to me any thing but manly. Yet, as the 
cortege drove up with a flourish of trumpets, and a line of 
javelin men, &c., &c., and my thoughts travelled to the 
cells of the jail behind, where, on these occasions, there 
must often be human beings waiting the result of a trial 
whose issue to them must be life or death, there was a 
thrilling feeling of solemnity excited by the scene alto- 
gether. It seemed to bring before me an inconceivably 
more awful and solemn tribunal, when the last trumpet 
shall sound, when the dead shall be raised, and the Great 
Assize, whose verdict shall be for Eternity, must be held 
on the countless myriads who have existed through all the 
successive ages of time. 



TO ISIRS. SALMON. 

10 mo, 8, 1848. 
My dear Friend, 

The same kindness that induced thee to take us 
in, and to make so much of us during our pleasant Hopton 
sojourn, will, I am sure, impart some little interest to a 
few lines reporting our safe return home, and our partial 
reinstatement in our wonted domicile; I call it partial. 



TO MRS. SALMON. 131 

inasmucli as one can hardly, all at once, fancy one's self 
really and veritably at home. I still seem to myself, in 
thought, feeling, and spirit, more than half at Hopton; as 
is very natural, for I thoroughly enjoyed my saunters and 
strolls there and thereabout, and can find or think of no 
walk half so pleasant as your cliffs, and Gorlestone pier. 
I miss too, more than a little, your agreeable family circle. 
Theo's lively chit-chat, Jane's comic comments, the smile 
of the younger girls, Frank's novel illustrations of Natural 
History, and the evening reports of Willy, scant as they 
were, of what chanced to be going on at Yarmouth. On 
the whole, my dear friend, I quite think our coming to you 
as we did was a right thing ; and I am very sure it was a 
pleasant one, as it gave me an opportunity of seeing you 
all together once again, and renewing my acquaintance 
with some of the young folks respecting whom my memory 
stood in some need of being brushed up a little. We got 
outside at Lowestoft, and kept there till we reached Yox- 
ford, when finding the inside entirely empty, I was not 
sorry once more to turn in, and found the change of rest 
to my back very agreeable, though the heat of the day 
rendered the loss of the fresher air at the top of the coach 
a very sensible privation. We arrived about four o'clock, 
and, after a reviving ablution, I felt none the worse for 
my journey, and decidedly the better for the few days' turn 
out. Libby Jones and E. F. Gr. dropt in about five and 
took tea with us : she left us soon after, but Edward stayed 
till between seven and eight, and then started for a moon- 
light walk to Boulge. 



TO JANE B . 

2 mo, 15, 1847. 
Dear Jane, 

I AM too late to send thee a Valentine ; but we 
are both old enough to have done "wi' sic frivolities/' as 
Grizel Oldbuck said — so that matters little. I send thee 
a copy of my little tribute to the memory of John Joseph 
Gurney. It's a small matter; but I have taken no small 
pains to make it as worthy of its subject as my scant lei- 
sure and declining ability would permit. In fact, I have 
bestowed more pains on this sheet and a half, than on 
a volume in my better days — a sad proof how near I draw 
to my dotage. But I found this poor tiny eflfort was ex- 
pected of me, both by those within and those without our 
pale ; so I resolved not to shirk it, little as I felt equal to 
doing justice to such a theme. I have a notion it will be 
more kindly taken (as a general result) out than in ; for 
some of our good Friends, who have no hearty liking to 
poetry or poets, will liken me to him of old, who put forth 
an unbidden — ergo, an unhallowed hand on the ark of old. 
From thee, dear Jane, I hope for a more charitable ver- 
dict: but I look for it with some anxiety, as thou hast 
much of the better part of poetry and Quakerism too in 
thee, and none can judge better of any attempt to combine 
the two without wrong to either. 

Thine affectionately, 

B. B. 

(132) 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 



9 mo, 1, 1845. 

Many years ago I wrote some verses for a Child's 
Annual, to accompany a print of Doddridge's mother 
teaching him Bible History from the Dutch tiles round 
their fire-place. I had clean forgotten both the print and 
my verses ; but some one has sent me a child's penny cot- 
ton handkerchief, on which I find a transcript of that iden- 
tical print, and four of my stanzas printed under it. This 
handkerchief celebrity tickles me somewhat. Talk of 
fame ! is not this a fame which comes home, not only to 
"men's business and bosoms," but to children's noses, into 
the bargain ! Tom Churchyard calls it an indignity, an 
insult, looks scorny* at it; and says he would cuff any 
urchin whom he caught blowing his nose on one of his 
sketches ! All this arises from his not knowing the com- 
plicated nature and texture of all worldly fame. 'T is like 
the image the Babylonish king dreamt of with its golden 
head, baser metal lower down, and miry clay for the feet. 
It will not do to be fastidious ; you must take the idol as 
it is ; its gold sconce, if you can get it ; if not, take the clay 
feet, or one toe of another foot, and be thankful, and make 



* A SufFolkcism. 
12 (133; 



134 LETTERS. 

what you can of it. I write verse to be read ! it is a mat- 
ter of comparative indifference to me whether I am read 
from a fine-bound book, on a drawing-room table, or spelt 
over from a penny rag of a kerchief by the child of a 
peasant or a weaver. So, honour to the cotton printer, 
say I, whoever he be; that bit of rag is my patent as a 
household poet. 



9 mo, 1, 1845. 
My Dear Friend, 

Here goes for my second letter to thee this 
blessed day. If that a'nt being a Uiter-ary character I 
should like to know what is. Some folks make a great 
fuss about writing letters; they pretend to say they can't 
write a letter ; they never know what to say ; yet they 
can talk, an hour by the clock ! as if there were any more 
difficulty in talking on paper than in a noisier lingo. I 
never could understand the difference. Not that I should 
prefer epistoliziug with a friend to having him tete-d-tete ; 
but no one can carry his friends about with him; and 
when you are two miles apart you can no more hope to 
make a friend hear you, than if you were twenty or two 
hundred. Then talking on paper seems to me just as na- 
tural and easy as talking with your tongue ; and so it 
would be to every one else, if they did not think it neces- 
sary to write fine letters, and say something smart or 
striking. This lies at the bottom of it. A man cares 
little, by comparison, what he blurts out, viva voce, he 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 135 

thinks he may say a silly thing with impunity, it can't 
stand on record against him; but when he gets a pen in 
his hand; he fancies, forsooth, he has a character to win, 
or to keep, for being eloquent, witty, or profound; the 
natural result is, he writes a stupid, unnatural letter; then 
says he hates letter-writing, and wonders how any body 
can like it. Women, who act more on impulse than we 
do, and make fewer metaphysical distinctions, and are 
less conceited, though they may have a pretty sprinkling 
of vanity, beat us out and out at letter-writing. A letter 
with a woman, if she be good for any thing, is an afiair of 
the heart rather than the head, so they put more heart into 
their letters. 



9 mo, 5, 1845. 
I AM inclined to think I did not go far enough 
in my position that it is as easy to write as to talk. I 
have a great notion it is much easier, at least I find I can 
always give utterance to my own thoughts and feelings 
with more readiness, ease, and fluency, on paper than 
orally — and I cannot conceive why others should not. In 
company, conversation may be going on all round you, 
and your attention is apt to be divided and distracted — 
even in a iete-u-tefe you must have two duties to perform, 
that of listener, as well as speaker, and in your desire not 
to engross more than your share of the talk, you are not 
unlikely to get less. In viva voce converse too, how often 



136 LETTERS. 

it happens that you cannot think of the very thing you 
most wanted to say. Many a time, after a long and moody 
discussion of a topic with a friend about a subject on 
which we took opposite views, I have called to mind, 
when too late to be of any use to me, some pithy argu- 
ment which would have blown all his to atoms, and 
which I should have been almost sure to have had at my 
fingers' ends had I been quietly arguing the matter on 
paper in my own study. 



5 mo, 14, 1846. 

I RAN down on the Sabbath to thy father's 
old borough, over those glorious heaths, now decked in 
gorgeous golden livery, and rich in perfume as any pinery. 
I gulped down all the sea air I could in a long stroll on 
the beach, walking twice over from Slaughden quay to 
Vernon's, between the time of leaving a conventicle I 
went to and dinner; besides one stroll on the terrace; 
and came back all the better, bodily to a certainty, and I 
hope none the worse, spiritually. I don't think I derived 
much edification from the service at the chapel, for the 
usual minister, a very decent sort of body, whom I had 
heard before, and went there pai-tly to hear again, was out, 
and his place was supplied by an honest, well-meaning 
Wesleyan, an out-and-out teetotaller, who lugged in some 
queer statistics about alcohol and its ill effects, which I 
thought a little out of place. But I dare say the good 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 137 

man thought it his duty. One item in his long prayer, 
before the sermon, was novel to me; it had an especial 
clause in it, "for all inmates of madhouses, and Lujiatic 
Asylums!" To the best of my recollection I never before 
heard these poor unfortunates especially prayed for, in 
any Christian congregation, whether of the Establish- 
ment or of any other sect. You have, to be sure, a saving 
clause in one of yours, where you pray, if I remember 
aright, for "all sorts and conditions of men," which of 
course must include lunatics; but the express reference 
was new to me ; and I felt no disposition to quarrel with 
it; so if the good man put somewhat into his sermon I 
could have dispensed with, he brought also somewhat 
into his prayer that partly made amends for it. I think it 
possible the worthy Wesleyan had come to the conclusion 
that nine-tenths of maniacs had been rendered such by 
strong drink; and therefore, as a teetotaller, he more 
especially felt bound to make compassionate mention of 
them ; if so, it was all the more to the credit of his Chris- 
tian charity. 



5 mo, 30, 1846. 
Seventh day evening. 

Dear C, 

If to-morrow be as fine as to-day has been, I 
may be tempted to stroll over to thine to dinner, assum- 
ing thy dinner hour to be five o'clock I think by start- 
12* 



138 LETTERS. 

ing at ihree^ or iDerbaps two, I may perform that feat of 
pedestrianism in the two, or at most three, hours. Do not 
exult over me on thy more Herculean powers of bone, 
sinew, or muscle ! recollect, 



" My eyes, my feet, begin to fail. 

My pace would scarce outstrip the snail." 



Nor does it greatly, when I walk alone. For every stile 
I come to I am sure to find, or fancy, my nose is hungry, 
as well as my feet weary, and I can feed the one and rest 
the other best by sitting on the top of said stile. Once 
seated, I am often in no hurry to rise again — especially if 
I chance to have a book in my pocket. So that I am not 
sure that an hour, or even one and a half, is an unreason- 
able allowance to a mile, but with a Friend I can occasion- 
ally go beyond this. 

Do not however be too sure that I shall be as resolute 
to-morrow as I feel inclined to be this evening. From the 
plotting of such an effort to its performance is a wide step, 
wider than I may fancy myself equal on the morrow to 
accomplish : but this may serve to notify that the thing 
was in my heart to be done ; and charitably give me credit 
for the goodness of my intention, rather than wrathfully 
vituperate me for failing therein. Old Johnson once said 
of some friend of his — "I am not sure, sir, that he has 
seen the inside of a church these seven years ; but he never 
passes one, or goes through a churchyard, without taking 
off his hat; and that shows good principles.'' In like 
manner, though I rarely walk to Bredfield, I often think 
of it, and wish myself there, and half resolve on walking 
there — all which shows my friendly regard for the place, 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 



139 



and my love for those who dwell there. Make what thou 

canst of this. 

Thine ever, 



8 mo, 20, 1846. 

My dear Friend, 

I WAS going to begin "My dear old Friend," for 
I have sometimes hard work to convince myself that our 
acquaintance is only of few years' standing. There are 
natures so intrenched in all sorts of artificial outworks, 
each of which must be deliberately carried by siege ere 
you can get at what there is of nature in them, that you 
had need know them, in conventional phraseology, half or 
a quarter of a life, ere you know aught about them. There 
are others whom, by a sort of instinctive free-masonry, 
you seem old friends with at once. The value of the 
acquisition depends not always on the time and labour it 
costs to make it — it is very often clean the contrary; for 
it by no means unfrequently turns out, that what has cost 
you much time and pains to get at is worth little when 
obtained. I speak not of principles or truths, which you 
must find out for yourself, and this must often be a slow 
process ; but I am talking of those who profess them, and 
these, mcthinks, ought to be more promptly discernible 
and discoverable. Man would not be such a riddle to 
man, did not too many of us wear masks, and intrench 
ourselves in all sorts of conventionalities and formalities. 



140 LETTERS. 

T do not think there is much of these in either of us ; and 
that, I take it, is the reason why we have got all the more 
readily at each other. Enough, however, of this long 
introduction, which I have blundered into without design 
or malice aforethought. 

I am glad to hear of thy having had so pleasant a visit at 
Beccles — we must talk it over one of these days. The 
days arc perceptibly shortening, and longer evenings will 
drive us to have fires — we will get over one for a Beccles 
palaver. I am well pleased, too, thou hast found that 
"Sun-dew," as thy heart was set upon it. "All have their 
hobbies." Flowers, wild or cultivated, do not chance to 
be mine ; but there is no reason why they should not be 
thine. So I repeat that I am well pleased thou shouldst 
have found thy coy pet. I saw naught of the Regatta; 
but I saw as much of it as I have seen of any one of its 
precursors, for I never yet went over the threshold on any 
one of our Regatta days ; so, as none of the boats or yachts 
will sail by our bank windows,* I have never yet seen one 
of them — I mean on these days of their especial display. 

As I have but imperfect sympathies with thee on wild- 
flowers, I cannot with any decent show of reason ©hallenge 
thy cordial ones with me about pets of my own. But 
I have within a fortnight or so made a curious discovery, 
which has interested me a good deal. My father was a 
Carlisle body, but left the "north countric" ere I was born; 
— my two elder sisters were born at Carlisle, but left it 
when mere children ; so their recollections never let me 
into the light of my progenitors. My father died ere I 
was seven years old, having married a second wife near 
London, and I grew up as part of her family rather than 

* Which are some way inland. 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 141 

my own. I have heard my elder sister say I was named 
after my grandfathei-, who was a manufacturer, I suspect 
on a small scale, at Carlisle. He carried a head on his 
shoulders, though, that manufacturing body; for he in- 
vented a curious piece of machinery, long since forgotten, 
but a sort of wonder in its day; for it won him a gold 
medal from some society in London. This is about all I 
ever knew of him until within about a fortnight, when I had 
a letter from a far-away cousin of mine at Carlisle, to con 
gratulate me on my pension ; and to ask in return my 
condolence on having lost a brother. The writer then 
adds — " Our burial-place is at St. Cuthbert's churchyard, 
in this city (Carlisle), where also are interred your grand- 
father and grandmother, but the stone is much fallen into 
decay." I wrote directly to learn further particulars, and 
have got the following copy of the inscription on the 
stone : 

ERECTED 
IN MEMORY or BERNARD BARTON; 

WHO DIED JAN. Gth, 1773; 

AGED 45 YEARS. 

ALSO 

OF MARY, HIS WIFE; WHO DIED 

MAY 20th, 1786; aged 54 years. 

ALSO 
OF FIVE OF THEIR CHILDREN; 

VIZ. 
GEORGE, WILLIAM, ABRAHAM, 

HENRY, AND BERNARD; 
WHO DIED IN THEIR INFANCY. 



142 LETTERS. 

Here 's a pretty chapter of one's family history to have 
been cut on stone some scores of years agono, and only 
now to have dawned on me. How that old mouldering 
tumble-down gravestone has peopled the past for me, and 
introduced me in foncy to a set of people I had not before 
dreamt of — '' bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh." 
The first thought which struck me on reading it was the 
comparative youthfulness of my grandpai'ents. One na- 
turally fancies one's grandftither and grandmother to have 
been old folk. AVhy, I am already near a score years 
older than my venerable namesake; and his widow, after 
surviving him thirteen years, was considerably my junior. 
My father, I think, died under forty, so I have no claim 
to longevity by right of descent. Then only to think of 
those five uncles of mine, or uncle-ets, rather, for they 
grew not up to mature uncle-hood. Had they all lived, 
wedded, and had families, what a Bartonian host we 
should or might have been ! I have, as thou wilt con- 
clude, sent to beg the old stone may be cleaned and re- 
novated, and set upright again ; for it is vastly out of the 
perpendicular; and but for my having thus accidentally 
heard of it, would probably have fallen down, and been 
carried off" to serve as a door-step, or to assist in the pave- 
ment of some pig-stye, mayhap. 

" To sucli vile uses may we come at last." 

My brother, to whom I wrote directly I heard of this 
humble memorial, feels as much interested as I do about it, 
and has given me carte hlanche for the defraying any costs 
or charges such renovation and re-erection may involve. 
If the old stone will stand it, I mean to have cut on the 
reverse side — 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 143 

REPAIRED AND ERECTED 

1846, 

BY BERNARD AND JOHN BARTON, 

GRANDSONS OF THE EIRST-NAMED 

DECEASED. 

So much for iny grand-dad and grandame ; and now, peace 
to their memories. But is it not curious that the know- 
ledge of such a relic should have dawned on one seventy- 
three years after its erection, all along of Sir Robert's 
giving me a pension? 

We purpose having a cold set-out — some folks call the 
thing a collation, others, a collection, throughout all the 
middle portion of this day week — in the discussion of 
which I hope thyself, and any, or all, thy family will assist, 
at whatever hour best suits you and the doings of the 
day.* Tell Master George, as a younger pillar of the 
Church, I rely on his presence, and let us know at what 
time we may hope for the pleasure of your company. 
And now, having bothered and bored thee enough in 
all conscience, I take my leave. 

Thiae affectionately, 

B. B. 



Dear C, 



12 mo, 18, 1847. 



Thou hast no notion what an effort it is to me 
to get out, or thou wouldst marvel not at my staying at 

* The consecrating a new churcli at Woodbridge. 



144 LETTERS. 

home. Did not Solomon say there is a time for going out, 
and a time for staying at home. If he did not, he ought to 
have said it ; and his omission negatives not the fact. 

I yet hope to see Bredfield one day or the other ; but the 
when and the how are hid from me. Jly walking facul- 
ties are not what they used to be ; and flying is too costly 
to have recourse to. Besides, my good old friend, I can't 
make out that it is any farther from Bredfield to Wood- 
bridge than it is from here to thine ; yet I think I perform 
that pious pilgrimage three times to thy one. Think of 
that, and make allowance for my old age and growing 
infirmities. Thine, with love to all the younkers, hes 
and shes. 

Ever truly, 

Bernardus. 



My dear C, 

I THINK Lucy had a note from Caroline yesterday 
brought by your Mercury, to which she made her re- 
sponse ; but she did not know when she made it that the 
said Mercury was also the bearer of more substantial 
proofs of your friendly memory, until I reported having 
seen the unwonted spectacle of a hare, and a brace of 
birds, hanging up below. Our damsel, it seems, brought 
the note up-stairs, but said not a word of the notable post- 
script she had hung up in our tiny larder. On her mis- 
tress letting out at her for the omission, and telling her 
she had been the cause of her doing a very rude thing, at 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 145 

least not doing a civil and thankful one, by not acknow- 
ledging such an importation ; she said, I thought very 
adroitly, that she concluded they were in the letter. The 
supposition was not an unnatural one; at any rate, it will 
account for the tardiness of our acknowledgments, which 
I promised Lucy I would duly make this evening, 

I had a letter the other day from a first cousin of mine, 
of whom I had not heard for near fifty years, and whom I 
fancied to have been dead. She is about my own age, I 
fear very poor, sickly, and infirm; but picks up a living 
I hardly know how, though I doubt a scanty one. She 
sent me a little scrap of her verse, for she, too, is a dabbler 
in rhyme. To me there is something really touching in 
her simple and brief record of her solitary state, and I 
have printed a few copies of it, giving it a title of my own 
making, as I received it without any; and I hope by 
sending a copy Iiere and there among some of our kinsfolk 
who are better ofi' than either she or myself, some trifling 
benefit may accrue to her. 

There is, to my fancy, a tone of genuine pathos in this 
little ditty which more than compensates for any defect in 
poetic beauty, and though in her verse she not unnaturally 
dwells on the darker side, the letter which came with it 
has no murmuring or repining whatever ; on the contrary, 
she expresses her gratitude at being able to earn her own 
living by her own exertions. 

I have written to my poor cousin, whom I well remem- 
ber nearly fifty years ago, as kind and encouraging a letter 
as I could indite, and I hope to render some little service, 
or to show by my sympathy that I am more proud than 
ashamed of our kinship. 

Thine truly, 

B. B. 
13 



146 LETTERS. 



Many a time wlien I have been taking a solitary 
stroll by the sea-side, the sight of footsteps left when 
no one was in sight has set me thinking whose they 
might be. 



LETTERS 



SOUTHEY, C. LAMB, &c. 



BERNARD BARTON. 



(147) 



FROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

Keswick, 3rd August, 1814. 

My dear Sir, 

I SHOULD have answered your letter imme- 
diately, if I had not been engaged with visitors when it 
arrived. In the course of my life I have more than once 
had reason to be thankful for having done things which 
would have been left undone, if the first impulse had been 
suflPered to pass by — for, second thought in matters of 
feeling usually brings with it hesitation and demurral and 
doubt, from which the whole brood of sins of omission are 
derived. Your letter affected me. It seems to come from 
a good heart and a wounded one, and therefore I will ven- 
ture to say what is upon my mind in spite of those obvious 
considerations which might prevent me. 

* sK >f: s); * * 

I shall be very glad to receive your little volume. If it 
be left either at Messrs. Longman's in Paternoster How, 
or at Mr Murray's in Albemarle Street, it will find its 
way to me in a parcel. 

From what I have heard, I believe that the magazine 
has given you a portrait of me as little accurate as its in- 
formation about my poem. I am a man of forty, younger 
in appearance and in habits, older in my feelings and 
frame of mind. I have been married nearly nineteen years, 
13 * (149) 



150 LETTERS. 

and have had seven children — two of whom (one being 
my first-born) are in a better world. The eldest now 
living is in her eleventh year. There is only one boy 
among them ; he is nearly eight, and has me for his 
schoolmaster and play-fkthcrj characters which we find it 
very easy to combine. You call me a fortunate being, 
and I am so, because I possess the will as well as the 
power of employing myself for the support of my family, 
and value riches exactly at what they are worth. I have 
store of books, and pass my life among them, finding no 
enjoyment equal to that of accumulating knowledge. In 
worldly affairs the world must consider me as unfortunate, 
for I have been deprived of a good property, which, by 
the common laws of inheritance, should have been mine; 
and this through no fault, error, or action of my own. 
But my wishes are bounded by my wants, and I have 
nothing to desire but a continuance of the blessings which 
I enjoy. 

Enough of this. Believe me, with the best wishes for 
your welfare, 

Sincerely yours, 

Robert Southey. 



1.9/A December, 1814. Keswick. 
My dear Sir, 

You will wonder at not having received my 
thanks for your Metrical EflFusions ; but you will acquit me 



FROM ROBERT S O U T H E Y. 151 

of all incivility when you Lear that the book did not reach 
me till this morning, and that I have now laid it down 
after a full perusal. It was overlooked at Murray's, for I 
have received several parcels from him in the course of 
the last two months ; and when upon the receipt of yours 
I wrote to inquire for it, it was packed up in company with 
heaATler matter, and travelled down by the slowest of all 
carriers. 

I have read your poems with much pleasure; those 
with most which speak most of your own feelings. Have 
I not seen some of them in the Monthly Magazine ? 

Wordsworth's residence and mine are fifteen miles 
asunder; a sufficient distance to preclude any frequent 
interchange of visits. I have known him nearly twenty 
years, and, for about half that time, intimately. The 
strength and the character of his mind you see in the 
"Excursion/' and his life does not belie his writings; for 
in every relation of life, and every point of view, he is a 
truly exemplary and admirable man. In conversation he 
is powerful beyond any of his contemporaries; and as a 
poet, I speak not from the partiality of friendship, nor 
because we have been so absurdly held up as both writing 
upon one concerted system of poetry, but with the most 
deliberate exercise of impartial judgment whereof I am 
capable, when I declare my full conviction that posterity 
will rank him with Milton. 

You wish the ''Metrical Tales" were republished; they 
are at this time in the press, incorj)orated with my other 
minor poems in three volumes. JYos hccc novimus esse 
nihil may serve as a motto for them all. 

Do not suffer my projected Quaker poem to interfere 
with your intentions respecting William Penn. There is 
not the slightest reason why it should. Of all great repu- 



152* LETTERS. 

tations, Penn's is that which has been most the effect of 
accident. The great action of his life was his turning Qua- 
ker : the conspicuous one, his behaviour upon his trial. In 
all that regards Pennsylvania, he has no other merit than 
that of having followed the principles of the religious com- 
munity to which he belonged, when his property happened 
to be vested in colonial speculations. The true champion 
for religious liberty in America was Roger Williams, the 
first consistent advocate for it in that country, and perhaps 
in any one. I hold his memory in veneration. But because 
I value religious liberty, I differ from you entirely concern- 
ing the Catholic question, and never would intrust any sect 
with political power whose doctrines are inherently and 
necessarily intolerant. 

Believe me, 

Yours with sincere respect, 

Robert Southey. 



Keswick, 21st January, 1820. 

Dear Sir, 

You propose a question to me which I can no 
more answer with any grounds for an opinion than if you 
were to ask me whether a lottery ticket should be drawn a 
blank or a prize; or if a ship should make a prosperous 
voyage to the East Indies. If I recollect rightly, poor 
Scott, of Amwell, was disturbed in his last illness by some 
hard-hearted and sour-blooded bigots who wanted him to 
repent of his poetry as a sin. The Quakers arc much 



FROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 153 

altered since that time. I know one, a man deservedly 
respected by all who know him, (Charles Lloyd the elder, 
of Birmingham,) who has amused his old age by trans- 
lating Horace and Homer; and he is looked up to in the 
Society, and would not have printed the translations if he 
had thought it likely to give offence. 

Judging, however, from the spirit of the age as aifecting 
your Society, like everything else, I should think they 
would be gratified by the appearance of a poet among them 
who confined himself within the limits of their general 
principles. They have been reproached with being the 
most illiterate sect that has ever arisen in the Christian 
world, and they ought to be thankful to any of their mem- 
bers who should assist in vindicating them from that op- 
probrium. There is nothing in their principles which 
should prevent them from giving you their sanction; and 
I will even hope there are not many persons who will im- 
pute it to you as a sin if you should call some of the months 
by their heathen names.* I know of no other offence that 
you are in danger of committing. They will not like 
virtuous feelings and religious principles the worse for 
being conveyed in good verse. If poetry in itself were 
unlawful, the Bible must be a prohibited book. 



* One in the " British Friend," did impute this as a sin, twenty- 
five years after Southey thus wrote. 



154 LETTERS. 



Kestmck, 25th Oct., 1820. 

My dear Sir, 

I MUST be very unreasonable were I to feel other- 
wise than gratified and obliged by a dedication* from one 
in whose poems there is so much to approve and admire. 
I thank you for this mark of kindness, and assure you that 
it is taken as it is meant. 

It has accidentally come to my knowledge that a brother 
of yours is married to the daughter of my worthy and re- 
spected friend, Mr. Woodruffe Smith. When you have an 
opportunity, it would oblige me if you would recall me to 
her remembrance, by assuring her that I have not forgotten 
the kindness which I so often experienced at her father's 
bouse. 

Perhaps you may consider it an interesting piece of 
literary news to be informed that, among my various em- 
ployments, one is that of collecting and arranging ma- 
terials for "The Life of George Fox, and the Rise and 
Progress of the Quakers." You know enough of my writ- 
ings to understand that the consideration of whom I may 
please or displease would never make me turn aside from 
what I believed to be the right line. I shall write fairly 
and freely, in the spirit of Christian charity. IMy personal 
feelings are those of respect toward the Society, (such as it 
has been since its first effervescence was spent,) and of good- 
will because of its members whom I have known and 
esteemed. Its history I shall relate with scrupulous fidelity, 
and discuss its tenets with no unfavourable or unfriendly 
bias, neither dissembling my own opinion when it accords, 



* Of tlie " Day in Autumn." 



FROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 155 

nor when it differs from them. And perhaps I may expose 
myself to more censure from others on account of agi-ee- 
ment, than from them because of the difference. But 
neither the one result nor the other will, in the slightest 
degree, influence me; my object being to compose with all 
diligence and all possible impartiality an important portion 
not of ecclesiastical history alone, but of the history of 
human opinions. 

I will only add, that in this work I shall have the oppor- 
tunity which I wish for, of bearing my testimony to the 
merit of your poems. 

Believe me, my dear Sir, 
Yours truly, 

KOBERT SoUTHEY. 



Keswick, 2'ith November, 1820. 

My dear Sir, 

I TRUST you will have imputed my silence about 
your "Day in Autumn" to the true cause — the delay to 
which such communications are liable in waiting for an 
opportunity of conveyance. It was not till this morning 
that I received it in a parcel, dated on the sixth of this 
month. The waggon travels slowly, and more time is lost 
in carrier's warehouses, when a parcel has to change con- 
veyances twice or thrice on the road, than is required for 
the journey. I now thank you again for the dedication 
and the poem. It is a very pleasing production, in a fine 
strain of genuine feeling. 



156 LETTERS. 

In reply to your questions concerning " The Life of 
George Fox/' the plan of the work resembles that of "The 
Life of Wesley," as nearly as possible. Very little progress 
has been made in the composition, but a good deal in col- 
lecting materials and digesting the order of their arrange- 
ment. The first chapters will contain a history of the 
religious, or irreligious dissensions in England, and their 
consequences, from the rise of the Lollards to the time 
when George Fox went forth. This will be such an his- 
torical sketch as that view of our ecclesiastical history in 
"The Life of Wesley;" which is the most elaborate por- 
tion of the work. The last chapter will probably contain 
a view of the state of the Society at the time, and the 
modification and improvement which it has gradually and 
almost insensibly received. This part, whenever it is 
written, and all those parts wherein I may be in danger of 
forming erroneous inferences from an imperfect knowledge 
of the subject, 1 shall take care to show to some members 
of the Society before it is printed. The general spirit and 
tendency of the book will, I doubt not, be thought favour- 
able hy the Quakers as well as io them, and the more so by 
the judicious, because commendation comes with tenfold 
weight from one who does not dissemble his own difierenee 
of opinion upon certain main points. 

Perhaps in the course of the work I may avail myself of 
your friendly ofier; and ask you some questions as they 
occur, and transmit certain parts for your inspection. 
Farewell, my dear Sir, and believe me, 
Yours with much esteem, 

Robert Southey. 



FROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 157 



Keswick, 19th Jan., 1821. 

My dear Sir, 

Though I am more tban usually busy at this 
time, (otherwise your former letter would not have been 
unnoticed so long,) I feel myself bound to assure you 
without delay, that the paragraph which you have trans- 
mitted to me from I know not what magazine, has sur- 
prised me quite as much as it can have done you. There 
is not the slightest foundation for it, nor can I guess how 
such a notion should have arisen. So far is it from being 
true, that offers of assistance in the way of documents 
have been made me by several of the Society, books have 
been sent me by some, and I have been referred to 
others for any information or aid which I may happen to 
want, and they be able to afford. Mrs. Fry offered me 
access to some manuscript collections in the possession of 
some of her friends, and Thomas Wilkinson (of whom you 
cannot think with more respect than I do) asked me the 
other day to let him know what books I wanted, and he 
would endeavour to borrow them for me with good hopes 
of success. 

I can only account for the paragraph by supposing the 
editor, whoever he may be, may have heard that Longman 
had not been able to obtain for my use the first edition of 
Gr. Fox's Journal. I have found it since in the possession 
of an acquaintance in the country. 

Your poem is a very pleasing one. How came the pre- 
judice against verse to arise among the Quakers, when so 
many of the primitive Quakers wrote verses themselves? 
14 



158 LETTERS. 

miserably bad ones they were, but still they were intended 
for poetry. 

Farewell, my dear Sir, and believe me, 
Yours with sincere respect, 

Robert Southet. 



[BERNARD BARTON TO SOUTHEY.] 

Woodbridge, 2 mo, 18, 1821. 

My DEAR Friend, 

The information contained in thy last, respect- 
ing the facilities afforded thee in the prosecution of thy 
present undertaking, was, on every account, highly agree- 
able to me; and I should have immediately returned my 
acknowledgments to thee for so promptly contradicting 
the report I had transmitted, had I not, besides being a 
good deal engaged myself, considered thy time much too 
valuable to be lightly intruded upon. After saying thus 
much, thou wilt, I hope, give me credit for having felt some 
hesitation, and indeed catechised myself pretty closely, 
prior to again addressing thee on a subject, seldom many 
days out of my thoughts. 

As thy proposed " Life of George Fox, and History of 
the Rise and Progress of our Society," is more talked of, 
and the knowledge of thy being engaged on such a work 
becomes more widely extended, it is very natural that 
those interested in the subject should have increased op- 



TO ROBERT S O U T H E Y. 159 

poriunities afforded them of hearing the opinions expressed 
by others; of comparing those opinions with their own; 
and that they should, as a necessary consequence of this, 
feel desirous of now and then imparting to the historian 
the apprehensions, as well as hopes, excited by his under- 
taking. I would not, believe me, put either thy time or 
patience in wanton and needless requisition, but on one 
topic I could wish, both as respects our feelings and our 
faith, to solicit thy serious, candid, and patient thought. 

A belief in the influences of the Holy Spirit, though 
entertained under various modifications, is, I think, no 
jjeculiar tenet of ours ; we may and do carry the principle 
further, and rely on the percepiibility of its guidance, and 
internal consciousness of its teachings, (if I may so express 
myself;) we may, I say, carry our belief on these matters 
beyond that of some of our fellow-Christians : but I think 
most who profess the Christian name, with the exception 
perhaps of the Socinians, admit the principle itself in the 
abstract; and consider the influences of the Spirit as one 
of the highest privileges to which the gospel of Christ in- 
troduces those who humbly receive it. Not doubting but 
it is . so regarded by thee, I cannot suppress the solicitude 
I feel, that in the discussion of a tenet so important, and 
which our peculiar acceptation of, belief in, and reliance 
upon, renders a marked feature of our faith; I repeat, 
I cannot but be anxious that this topic, if discussed at 
all by thee, should be touched upon with that humility and 
reverence befitting one who himself admits the existence 
of such a Spirit, who believes in its holy influence, but 
who probably differs from us in respect to that influence 
being perceptible, and who may even look upon our belief 
in such perceptibility as mysticism, if not actual delusion. 
Bear with me on this subject, my valued friend, for, 



160 LETTERS. 

believe me, I have no ■wish to dwell longer upon it than is 
essential to my piu-pose, and I most certainly am not going 
now to enter into a detailed defence of our views of it ; but 
should those views appear to thee erroneous, allow me to 
express my earnest hope that thou wilt not, in attempting 
their refutation, at once endanger the foundation, because 
thou mayest not quite approve of our superstructure. Do 
not let me, I entreat, be misunderstood. I have no fear of 
thy discussing our belief in a tone of ridicule, or even of 
levity; of thy talking of our professing to be led by the 
Spirit, in the light and trifling manner in which the 
fundamental article of our creed has been railed at by 
scoifers, burlesqued by dramatists, and jeered at by the 
vain, unthinking ribaldry of the lowest vulgar, with whom 
the taunt, noiv happily seldom heard, "Friend, doth the 
Spirit move thee?" — has before now passed as a joke. 
On these points I can have no fears j nor is it on any such 
ground that I feel the solicitude I now express. But it 
has occurred to me, that with a view to counteract the 
tendency of a doctrine which may appear to thee as open- 
ing a door to fanaticism and enthusiasm, thou mayest quite 
unintentionally weaken what, I am fully persuaded, is 
viewed by thee as sacred; and, without convincing us 
that we believe too much, mayest promote the more cold 
and sceptical views of those who believe too little. I cer- 
tainly am not going to be so dictatorial as to tell our his- 
torian he is not to give his own serious and deliberately- 
formed opinion on the tenets of a sect whose rise and 
progress he undertakes as his theme; nor can I or do I 
expect that opinion to be in precise accordance with our 
own; but the more immediate object of this address is to 
induce thee, if any inducement can be needful, to regard 
this point of religious doctrine as one on which it becomes 



iO ROBERT SOUTHEY. 161 

even the acutest and strongest of human intellects to write 
with diffidence; as one on which it is very possible to 
darken counsel by words without knowledge. It will 
ever remain, at least such is my belief, after philosophy 
and even theology have exhausted their powers in its 
discussion, a point of abstract faith, of deep feeling; — to 
be humbly believed, to be meekly obeyed; but not to be 
too curiously analysed, or lightly argued upon. Those 
who reverently and devoutly believe its truth, and think 
they feel its efficacy, are not very likely to abandon 
it ; and even those who think it fallacious, may perhaps 
wisely pause, before they attempt to prove its flillacy ; lest 
in demonstrating the impossibility of the Holy Spirit 
being a i^erccptible guide, and its dictates not only re- 
motelijj but immediately influential, they should, however 
undesignedly, inflict pain on those who think differently ; 
lower, or at least lessen, A gift for which, according to 
their view of it, they supplicate publicly, and afford cause of 
triumph to those who avowedly deny its existence. 

Believing, as I do, that on thy susceptibility of feeling 
and correctness of judging respecting tliis one poitit much 
of the value of thy history, of its utility to others, as well 
as ourselves, must in great measure depend, I cannot 
apologize for the freedom I have taken in expressing my 
opinions or feelings respecting it. Without a capacity to 
appreciate this principle, as held by our early predecessors, 
it appears to me impossible to write their history fairly ; — 
loith it, I have no apprehension of thy erring very mate- 
rially. Thus thinking, it would be a great satisfaction to 
me, if I may ask such a favoux-, to know something of thy 
sentiments on this subject. Perfect coincidence with ours 
I do not expect ; but I should be sorry to find our friendly 
historian, for such I am persuaded thou art in intention, 
14* 



162 LETTERS. 

among those who can for a moment doubt that " there is a 
Spirit in man, and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth 
him understanding!" 

Thine most affectionately, 

B. B. 



July 9, 1821. 
My dear Sir, 

I HAD not leisure to reply to your former letter 
when it arrived ; a full reply to it, indeed, would require a 
dissertation rather than a letter. The influence of the 
Holy Spirit is believed by all Christians, except the ultra 
Socinians; the more pious Sociniaus would admit it, 
though under a different name. But the question what is, 
and what is not the effect of that influence, is precisely 
asking where, in religious cases, reason ends, and insanity 
begins. In all communities of Christians there have been 
and are persons, who mistake their own imaginations for 
inspiration; and that this was done in some cases by the 
early Quakers, the present members of that Society would 
not deny. 

It is always my custom to have a work long in my 
thoughts before it is taken actually in hand; and to col- 
lect materials and let the plan digest while my main occu- 
pation is upon some other subject which has undergone 
the same slow but necessary process. At present, I am 
printing "The History of the Peninsular War," a great 



PROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 163 

work, and it is probable that this is not the only work 
which I shall bring out, before "The Life of G-eorge Fox'' 
becomes my immediate business. One great advantage 
arising from this practice is, that much in the mean time is 
collected in the course of other pursuits which would not 
have been found by a direct search ; facts and observations 
of great importance frequently occurring where the most 
diligent investigator would never think of looking for 
them. The habit of noting and arranging such memor- 
anda is acquired gradually ; and can hardly be learnt 
otherwise than by experience. 

So Buonaparte is now as dead as Caesar and Alexander ! 
I did not read the tidings of his death without a mournful 
feeling, which I am sure you also must have experienced, 
and which I think you are likely as well as able to ex- 
press in verse. It is an event which will give birth to 
many poems, but I know no one so likely as yourself to 
touch the right strings. 

Farewell, and believe me. 

Yours very truly, 

Egbert Southey. 

I do not remember whether I told you that Thomas 
Wilkinson, who is a collector of autographs, showed me a 
specimen of George Fox's hand-writing, and told me it 
bore a remarkable resemblance to Mirabeau's, than whom 
it woidd not be possible to find a man more unlike him in 
every thing else. 



164 LETTERS. 



[On receiving from Mr. Barton a MS. specimen, and afterwards the 
printed volume, of his " Napoleon."] 



Keswick, 22nd August, 1821. 

I LIKE your specimen in every thing, except in 
its praise of Bertrand. A man does not deserve to be 
praised for constant worth whose merit consists in fidelity 
to a wicked master. If ttis is to be admitted as virtue, 
the devil may have his saints and martyrs. No man of 
worth .could have adhered to Buonaparte after the murder 
of the Due D'Enghien, and after his conduct to Portugal 
and Spain. I say nothing of former atrocities, because, 
before they were confessed by Buonapdrte himself, they 
were denied, and might have been deemed doubtful; but 
these crimes were public and notorious, and not to be ex- 
tenuated, not to be forgotten, not to be forgiven. 

I notice only one line in which the meaning is ambigu- 
ously expressed — "Thy power man's strength alone;" — 
perhaps I might not have noticed it if the want of perspi- 
cuity did not arise in part from a license which I detected 
myself in committing this morning — the use of alone 
instead of only. What you mean to say, is, that mmis only 
strength is thy power ; but as the words now stand they 
may convey an opposite meaning. 



FROM EGBERT SOUTHEY. 165 



18th May, 1822. 

Thank you for your volume, which I received 
three hours ago — long enough to have read the principal 
poem, and a large portion of the minor ones. They do you 
great credit. Nothing can be better than the descriptive 
and sentimental parts. In the reasoning ones, you some- 
times appear to me to have fallen into Charles Lloyd's 
prosing vein. The verse indeed is better than his, but 
the matter sometimes, (though rarely,) like much of his 
later compositions, incapable of deriving any advantage 
from metre. The seventh stanza is the strongest exam- 
ple of this. On the other hand, this is well compensated 
by many rich passages and a frequent felicity of expres- 
sion. Your poem, if it had suited your object so to have 
treated it, might have derived further interest from a view 
of Buonaparte's system of policy, the end at which he 
aimed, and the means which he used. I believe that no 
other individual ever occasioned so much wretchedness 
and evil as the direct consequence of his own will and 
pleasure. His partisans acknowledge that the attempted 
usurpation of Spain was his sole -act, and it was so pal- 
pably unjust, that the very generals who served him in it, 
condemn it without reserve. That war, in its progi-ess 
and consequences, has not cost so little as a million of lives, 
and the account is far from being closed. 

You will not like Buonaparte the better, perhaps, if I 
confess to you that, had it not been for him, I should per- 
haps have assented to your general principle concerning 
the unlawfulness of war, in its full extent. But when I saw 
that he was endeavouring to establish a military despotism 



166 LETTERS. 

tliroughout Europe, which, if not successfully withstood 
abroad, must at last have reached us on our own shores, 
I considered him as a Philistine or a heathen, and went for 
a doctrine applicable to the times, to the books of Judges 
and of IMaccabees. Nevertheless, I will fairly acknow- 
ledge that the doctrine of non-resistance connected with 
non-obedience is the strongest point of Quakerism. And 
nothing can be said against it but that the time for the 
general acceptance is not yet come. "Would to God that 
it were nearer than it appears to be ! 



Keswick, 29th December, 1 837. 

My dear Sir, 

I AM much obliged to you for your daughter's 
very elegant little volunje,* and heartily wish it may prove 
both as successful as she can wish, and as useful as she 
intends it to be. 

The worst of all errors in religion, because in its con- 
sequences the most heart-hardening to individuals, and 
the most dangerous to society, is the belief that salvation 
is exclusively confined to a particular church or sect. 
Wherever that opinion prevails there is an end of Chris- 
tian charity. I rejoice therefore that you and your daugh- 
ter are both catholic Christians, and are agreed that though 

* Gospel History. 



PROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 167 

one goes to cliurcli, and the other to meeting, both may 
go to heaven, and both are on the road thither. May we 
all meet there. 

Yours very truly, and with many thanks and good 
wishes to your daughter, 

KOBERT SoUTHEY. 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 

December 1, 1824. 

Dear B. B. 

If Mr. IMitford will send me a full and circum- 
stantial description of his desired vases, I will transmit the 
same to a gentleman resident at Canton, whoni I think I 
have interest enough in to take the proper care for their 
execution. But Mr. JM. must have patience, China is a 
great way off, farther perhaps than he thinks; and his 
next year's roses must be content to wither in a wedge- 
wood-pot. He will please to say whether he should like 
his "arms" upon them, &c. I send herewith some pat- 
terns which suggest themselves to me at the first blush of 
the subject, but he will probably consult his own taste 
after all. 




The last pattern is obviously fitted for ranunculuses only. 
The two former may iudiflfcrently hold daisies, marjoram, 
sweet-williams, and that sort. My friend in Canton 

C168) 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 169 

is Inspector of Teas, his name is Ball ; and I can think of 
no better tunnel. I shall expect Mr. M.'s decision. 

T. and H. finding their magazine goes off very heavily 
at 2s. 6d. are prudently going to raise their price another 
shilling ; and having already more authors than they want, 
intend to increase the number of them. If they set up 
against the " New Monthly/' they must change their pre- 
sent hands. It is not tying the dead carcass of a Eeview 
to a half-dead Magazine will do their business. It is like 
G. D. multiplying his volumes to make 'em sell better. 
When he finds one will not go off, he publishes two; two 
stick, he tries three ; three hang fire, he is confident that a 
fourth will have a better chance. 



July 2, 1825. 

My dear B. B., 

My nervous attack has so unfitted me, that I 
have not courage to sit down to a letter. My poor pit- 
tance in the "London" you will see is drawn from my 
sickness. Your book is very acceptable to me, because 
most of it is new to me; but your book itself we cannot 
thank you for more sincerely than for the introduction 
you favoured me with to A. K. Now, I cannot write Mrs. 

A. K. for the life of me. She is a very pleas 

but I won't write all we have said of her so often to our- 
selves, because I suspect you would read it to her. Only 
give my sister's and ray kindest remenibrances to her, and 
how glad we are we can say that word. If ever she 
15 



170 LETTERS. 

come to South wark again, I count upon another Bridge 
walk with her. Tell her I got home time for a rubber; 
but poor Tryphona will not understand that phrase of the 
worldling. 

I am hardly able to appreciate your volume now. But 
I liked the Dedication much, and the apology for your bald 
burying-grounds. To Shelley, but that is not new. To 
the young Vesper-singer, Great Bealings, Piayford, and 
what not? 

If there be a cavil, it is that the topics of religious con- 
solation, however beautiful, are repeated till a sort of trite- 
ness attends them. Do children die so often, and so good, 
in your parts? The topic taken from the consideration 
that they are snatched away from possible vanities, seems 
hardly sound; for to an omniscient eye their conditional 
failings must be one with their actual; but I am too un- 
well for Theology — such as I am, 

I am yours and A. K.'s truly, 

C. Lamb. 



August 10, 1825. 
Dear B. B., 

You must excuse my not writing before, when I 
tell you we are on a visit to Enfield, where I do not feel it 
natural to sit down to a letter. It is at all times an exer- 
tion. I had rather talk with you, and A. K., quietly at 
Colebrooke Lodge, over the matter of your last. You mis- 
take me when you express misgivings about my relish- 
ing a series of Scriptural poems I wrote confusedly — 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 171 

what I meant to say was, that one or two consolatory 
poems on deaths would have had a more condensed effect 
than many. Scriptural devotional topics admit of infinite 
variety. So far from poetry tiring me because religious, I 
can read, and I say it seriously, the homely old version of 
the Psalms in our Prayer Books for an hour or two together 
sometimes, without sense of weariness. 

I did not express myself clearly about what I think a 
false topic insisted on so frequently in consolatory ad- 
dresses on the death of infants. I know something like it 
is in Scripture, but I think humanly spoken. It is a na- 
tural thought, a sweet fallacy to the survivors — but still 
a fallacy. 



"1826." 
Dear B. B., 

I don't know why I have delayed so long 
writing. 'Twas a fault. The under-current of excuse to 
my miod was, that I had heard of the vessel in which 
Mitford's jars were to come; that it had been obliged to 
put in to Batavia to refit, (which accounts for its delay,) 
but was daily expected. Days are past, and it comes not, 
and the mermaids may be drinking their tea out of his 
china for aught I know ; but let 's hope not. In the mean 
time, I have paid £28, &c., for the freight and prime cost. 
But do not mention it. I was enabled to do it by a 
, receipt of £30 from Colburn, with whom, however, I have 
done. I should else have run short, for I just make ends 



172 LETTERS. 

meet. We will await the arrival of the trinkets, and to 
ascertain their full expense, and then bring in the bill. 

I am Ycry sorry you and yours have any plagues about 
dross matters. I have been sadly puzzled at the defalcation 
of more than one-third of my income, out of which when 
entire I saved nothing. But cropping off wine, old books, 
&c., &c., in short, all that can be called pocket-money, I hope 
to be able to go on at the Cottage. 

Colburn has something of mine in last month, which he 
has had in hand these seven months, and had lost, or 
could n't find room for : I was used to different treatment in 
the " London," and have forsworn periodicals. 

I am going through a course of reading at the Museum — 
the Garrick plays, out of part of which I formed my spe- 
cimens ; I have two thousand to go through, and in a few 
weeks have despatched the tithe of 'em. It is a sort of 
office to me — hours, ten to four, the same. It does me good ; 
man must have regular occupation that has been used to 
it. So A. K. keeps a school ! She teaches nothing wrong, 
I'll answer for't. I have a Dutch print of a schoolmis- 
tress; little old-fashioned Fleminglings, with only one face 
among them. She, a princess of a schoolmistress, wielding 
a rod for form more than use : the scene an old monastic 
chapel, with a Madonna over her head, looking just as 
serious, as thoughtful, as pure, as gentle, as herself. 'T is 
a type of thy friend. 

Will you pardon my neglect ? jMind, again I say, not to 
show this to M. ; let me wait a little longer, to know the 
event of his luxuries. Heaven send him his jars uucracked, 

and me my . 

Yours with kindest wishes to your daughter and 
friend, in which Mary joins, 

C. L. 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 173 



Dear B. B., 

The "Busy Bee," as Hood, after Dr. Watts, 
-apostrophizes thee; and well dost thou deserve it for thy 
labours in the Muse's gardens, wandering over parterres 
of Think-on-mes and Forget-me-nots, to a total impossi- 
bility of forgetting thee : — thy letter was acceptable, thy 
scruples may be dismissed, thou art rectus in curia, — not a 
word more to be said, verbum sapienti, and so forth, the 
matter is decided with a white stone, (classically, mark 
me,) and the apparitions vanished that haunted me, — only 
the cramp, Caliban's distemper, clawing me in the calvish 
part of my nature, making me ever and anon roar bullishly, 
squeak cowardishly, and limp cripple-ishly. Do I write 
Quakerly and simply ? 'Tis my most Master Mathews-like 
intention to do it. See Ben Jonson. — I think you told 
me your acquaintance with the drama was confined to 
Shakspeare and Miss Bailly — some read only Milton and 
Croly. The gap is from an ananas to a turnip. I have 
fighting in my head the plots, characters, situations, and 
sentiments of four hundred old plays, (bran new to me,) 
which I have been digesting at the Museum, and my ap- 
petite sharpens to twice as many more, which I mean to 
course over this winter. I can scarce avoid dialogue 
fashion in this letter. I soliloquize my meditations, and 
habitually speak dramatic blank verse without meaning it. 
Do you see Mitford ? he will tell you something of my 
labours. Tell him I am sorry to have missed seeing him, 
to have talked over those old treasures. I am still more 
15* 



174 LETTERS. 

sorry for bis missing pots.* But I shall be sure of the 
earliest intelligence of the lost tribes. His " Sacred 
Specimens" arc a thankful addition to my shelves. Marry, 
I could wish he had been more careful of corrigenda — 
I have discovered certain which have slipt in his errata. 
I put 'em in the next page, as perhaps thou canst transmit 
them to him. For what purpose, but to grieve him? 
(which yet I should be sorry to do ;) but then it shows my 
learning, and the excuse is complimentary, as it implies 
their correction in a future edition. His own things in 
the book are magnificent, and as old Christ's Hospitaller, 
I was particularly refreshed with his eulogy of our Ed- 
ward. Many of the choice excerpta were new to me. 
Old Christmas is a coming, to the confusion of Puritans, 
Muggletonians, Anabaptists, Quakers, and that unwas- 
sailing crew. He cometh not with his wonted gait ; he is 
shrunk nine inches in the girth, but is j^et a lusty fellow. 
Hood's book is mighty clever, and went off six hundred 
copies the first day. Sion's songs do not disperse so 
quickly. The next leaf is for Rev. J. M.f In this, 
Adieu. 
Thine briefly in a tall friendship, 

C. Lamb. 

* The Cliina vases before mentioned. 

t Containing corrigenda for tiic " Sacred Specimens." 



FEOM CHARLES LAMB. 175 



"■June IKA, 1827. 

Martin's Belshazzar (the picture) I have seen; 
its architectural effect is stupendous^ but the human figures, 
the squalling contorted little antics that are playing at 
being frightened, like children at a sham ghost who half 
know it to be a mask, are detestable. Then the letters 
are nothing more than a transparency lighted up, such as a 
lord might order to be lit up on a sudden at a Christmas 
gambol, to scare the ladies. The type is as plain as Bas- 
kervil's; they should have been dim, full of mystery — 
letters to the mind rather than the eye. Rembrandt has 
painted a Belshazzar and a courtier or two, (taking a part 
of the banquet for the whole,) not fribbled out a mob of 
fine folks. Then every thing is so distinct, to the very 
necklaces ; and that foolish little prophet — what one point 
is there of interest? The ideal of such a subject is that 
you, the spectator, should see nothing but what at the time 
you would have seen — the hand and the king ; not to be 
at leisure to make tailor-remarks on the dresses, or, Doctor- 
Kitchener-like, to examine the good things at table. 

Just such a confused piece is his Joshua — frittered into 
a thousand fragments, little armies here, little armies there; 

— you should only see the sun and Joshua ; if I remem- 
ber, he has not left out that luminary entirely, but for 
Joshua, I was ten minvites a finding him. 

Still he is showy in all that is not the human figure or 
the preternatural interest : but the first are below a 
drawing-school girl's attainment, and the last is a phantas- 
magoric trick — "Now you shall see what you shall see: 

— dare is Belshazzai', and dare is Daniel." 



176 LETTERS. 



My dear B. B., 

You will understand my silence when I tell you 
that my sister, on the very eve of entering into a new 
house we have taken at Enfield, was surprised with an 
attack of one of her sad long illnesses, which deprive me of 
her society, though not of her domestication, for eight or 
nine weeks together. I see her, but it does her no good. 
But for this, we have the snuggest, most comfortable 
house, with every thing most compact and desirable. 
Colebrook is a wilderness : the books, prints, &c., are come 
here, and the New River came down with us. The fami- 
liar prints, the bust, the Milton, seem scarce to have 
changed their rooms. One of her last observations was, 
" How frightfully like this room is to our room at Isling- 
ton!" — our up-stairs, she meant. How I hope you will 
come, some better day, and judge of it ! We have lived 
quiet here for four months, and 1 will answer for the com- 
fort of it enduring. 

On emptying my book-shelves, I found a Ulysses,* 
which I will send to A. K. when I go to tovyn, for her ac- 
ceptance — unless the book be out of print. One likes to 
have one copy of every thing one does. I neglected to 
keep one of " Poetry for Children," the joint production of 
Mary and me, and it is not to be had for love or money. 

* One of Mr. Lamb's version of Chapman's Odyssey. 



PROM CHARLES LAMB. 177 



Dear B. B., 

We are pretty well and comfortable, and I take 
a first opportunity of sending the '^ Adventures of Ulysses/' 
hoping that among US — Homer, Chapman, and Co., we 
shall afford you some pleasure. I fear it is out of print; 
if not, A. K. will accept it, with wishes it were bigger; 
if another coj^y is not to be had, it reverts to me and my 
heirs for ever. With it I send a trumpery book; to which, 
without my knowledge, the editor of the "Bijoux" has 
contributed Lucy's verses; I am ashamed to ask her ac- 
ceptance of the trash accompanying it. Adieu to Albums 
for a great while, I said, when I came here ; and had not 
been fixed two days, but iny landlord's daughter (not at 
the pot-house) requested me to write in her female friend's, 
and in her own. All over the Leeward Islands, in New- 
foundland, and the Back Settlements, I understand there 
is no other reading. They haunt me. I die of Albo- 
phobia ! 



" 1827. 
My dear B. B., 

A GENTLEMAN I never saw before brought me 
your welcome present.* Imagine a scraping, fiddling, 
fidgeting, petit-maUre of a dancing-school advancing into 
my parlour, with a coupee and a sidelong bow, and pre- 

* The "Widow's Tale," &,c. 



178 LETTERS. 

scnting the book as if he had been handing a glass of 
lemonade to a young Miss — imagine this and contrast it 
with the serious nature of the book presented. Then task 
your imagination, reversing this picture, to conceive of 
quite an opposite messenger, a lean, straight-locked, whey- 
faced Methodist, for such was he in reality who brought 
it, the genius (it seems) of the "Wesleyan Magazine." 
Certes, friend B., thy "Widow's Tale" is too horrible, 
spite of the lenitives of religion, to embody in verse; I 
hold prose to be the proper exposition of such atrocities ! 
No offence, but it is a cordial that makes the heart sick. 
Still, thy skill in compounding it I do not deny. I turn 
to what gave me less mingled pleasure. I find marked 
with pencil these pages in thy pretty book, and fear I have 
been penurious. 

Page 52, 53, capital. 

59, sixth stanza, exquisite simile. 
61, eleventh stanza, equally good. 

108, third stanza, I long to see Van Balen. 

Ill, a downright good sonnet. DLvi. 

153, lines at bottom.* 

* Pages 52, 53, refer to tlic poem " Which Things are a Shadow." 
59, Gl, to tlie sixth and cleventli stanzas of "A Grandsire's Tale." 
The " downright good sonnet," is " To a Grandmother." All of tliese 
are included in this Selection. The " third stanza" at 108, that made 
Lamb long to sec Van Balen, was from a little poem describing a 
picture by that artist that represented some angel children leading up 
a lamb to the infant Saviour in his mother's lap: 

No — rather like that beauteous boy, 

Who turns round silently to stay 
Those infant angels in their joy, 

As if too loud their gentle play, — 
Like him I pause witii doubtful mien. 
As loth to, break on such a scene. 



FROM CHAELES LAMB. 179 

So you sec, I read, hear, and mark, if I don't learn. In 
short, this little volume is no discredit to any of your 
former, and betrays none of the senility you fear about. 

Aproi)os of Van Balen, an artist who painted me lately 
had painted a blackamoor praying; and not filling his 
canvass, stuffed in his little girl aside of blacky, gaping at 
him unmeaningly ; and then did not know what to call it. 
Now for a picture to be promoted to the exhibition (Suf- 
folk-street) as historical, a subject is requisite. What does 
me I, but christen it the '' Young Catechist," and furbished 
it with dialogue following, which dubb'd it an historical 
painting. Nothing to a friend at need. 

While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, 
Painter, who is she that stayoth 
By, witla skin of w^hitest lustre ; 
Sunny locks, a shining- cluster; 
Saint-like seeming to direct him 
To the power that must protect him ? 
Is she of the heav'n-born Three, 
Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity? 
Or some cherub ? 

They you mention 
Far transcend my weak invention. 
'Tis a simple Christian child, 
Missionary young and mild. 
From her store of Scriptural knowledge, 
(Bible-taught without a college,) 

The " 153. lines at bottom," arc these : — 

Though even in the yet unfolded rose 

The worm may lurk, and sin blight blooming youth , 

The light born with us long so brightly glows, 
That childhood's first deceits seem almost truth 
To life's cold after-lie, selfish and void of ruth. 



180 LETTERS. 

Which by reading she could gather, 
Teaches him to say Our Father 
To the common Parent, who 
Colour not respects nor hue 
White and black in Him have part 
Wlio looks not on the skin, but heart 

When I bad done it, the artist (who had clapt in Miss 
merely as a fill-space) swore I expressed his full meaning, 
and the damoscl bridled up into a Missionary's vanity. I 
like verses to explain pictures ; seldom pictures to illus- 
trate poems. Your wood-cut is a rueful signum juortis. 
By the bye, is the widow likely to many again ? 

I am giving the fruit of my Old Play reading at the 
Museum, to Hone, who sets forth a portion weekly in the 
" Table Book." Do you see it ? How is Mitford ? 

I '11 just hint that "the pitcher," "the cord," and "the 
bowl," are a little too often repeated (passim) in your 
book, and that in page 17, last line but four, him is put for 
he ; but the poor widow I take it had small leisure for 
grammatical niceties. Don't you see there's he, myself, 
and hi7n ; why not both hi7n?* Likewise imperviously is 
cruelly spelt imperiously. These are trifles, and I honestly 
like your book, and you for giving it, though I really am 
ashamed of so many presents. 

I can think of no news, therefore I will end with mine 
and ]\Iary's kindest remembrances to you and yours. 

C. L. 

* Another and another sank; and now 
But three of all our crew were left behind : 

He unto whom my lip had pledged a vow 

Which closer scem'd in this sad hour (o bind. 

Myself, and him, to wiiom was rrsf assign'd 
Our ship's command — 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 181 



"March 25, 1829." 
I HAVE just come from Town, where I have 
been to get my bit of quarterly pension. And have 
brought home, from stalls in Barbican, the old "Pilgrim's 
Progress" with the prints, " Vanity Fair," &c., now scarce. 
Four shillings. Cheap. And also one of whom I have 
oft heard and had dreams, but never saw in the flesh — 
that is, in sheepskin — " The whole theologic works of 

Thomas Aquinas I" 
My arms ached with lugging it a mile to the stage, but 
the burden was a pleasure, such as old Anchises was to 
the shoulders of JEneas ; or the Lady to the Lover in the 
old romance, who having to carry her to the top of a high 
mountain — the price of obtaining her — clambered with her 
to the top and fell dead with fatigue. 

the glorious old schoolmen ! 
There must be something in him. Such great names im- 
ply greatness. Who hath seen Michel Angelo's things — 
of us that never pilgrimaged to Rome — and yet which of 
us disbelieves his greatness ? How I will revel in his 
cobwebs and subtleties till my brain spins ! 

N. B. I have writ in the Old Hamlet* — ofler it to 
Mitford in my name, if he have not seen it. 'Tis woefully 
below our editions of it. But keep it, if you like. 

I do not mean this to go for a letter, only to apprize 
you that the parcel is booked for you this 25th March, 
1829, from the Four Swans, Bishopsgate. 

With both oui' loves to Lucy and A. K. 
Yours ever. 

C. L. 

* The reprint of the first quarto, in which C. L. wrote his name. 
16 



182 LETTERS. 



" August 30, 1830." 

Dear B. B., 

My address is 34, Southampton Buildings^ Hol- 
born. For God's sake do not let me be pestered with 
Annuals. They are all rogues ■who edit them, and some- 
thing else who write in them, I am still alone, and very 
much out of sorts, and cannot spur up my mind to writing. 
The sight of one of those Year Books makes me sick. 
I get nothing by any of 'em, not even a copy. 

Thank you for your warm interest about my little 
volume,* for the critiques on which I care the five hundred 
thousandth part of the tithe of a half farthing. 

I am too old a militant for that. How noble, though, 
in E. S. to come forward for an old friend, who had treated 
him so unworthily. 

Moxon has a shop without customers, and I a book 
without readers. But what a clamour against a poor col- 
lection of Album verses, as if we had put forth an Epic. 

I cannot scribble a long letter — I am, when not at 
foot (?) very desolate, and take no interest in anything, 
scarce hate anything, but annuals. I am in an interreg- 
num of thought and feeling. 

AY hat a beautiful autumn morning this is, if it was but 
with me as in times past, when the candle of the Lord 
shined around me ! 

I cannot even muster enthusiasm to admire the French 
heroism. 

* " Album verses," published by Mr. Mo.xon in 1830 ; sneered at 
by some of the Reviewers, and vindicated in a Sonnet by Southcy, 
inserted in " The Times" newspaper. 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 183 

In better times I hope we may some day meet, and dis- 
cuss an old poem or two. 

But if you 'd have me not sick, 

No more of Annuals. 

C. L. Ex-Elia. 
Love to Lucy, and A. K., always. 



"April, 1831." 
ViR bone! 

E.ECEPI literas tuas amicissimas, et in mentem 
venit responsuro mihi, vel raro, vel nunquam, inter nos 
intercedisse Latinam linguam, organum rescribendi, lo- 
quendive. Epistol^e tu£e, Plinianis elegantiis (supra quod 
Tremulo deceat) repertae, tarn a verbis Plinianis adeo ab- 
horrent, Tit ne vocem quamquam (Romanam scilicet) ha- 
bere videaris, quam "ad canem," ut aiunt, "rejectare 
possis." — Forsan desuetudo Latinissandi ad vernaculam 
linguam usitandam, plusquam opus sit, coegit. Per adagia 
qiia3dam nota, et in ore omnium pervulgata, ad Latinitatis 
perditce recuperationem revocare te institui. 

Eelis in abaco est, et gegre videt. 
Omne quod splendet nequaquam aurum putes. 
Imponas equo mendicum, equitabit idem ad diabolum. 
Fur commode a fure prenditur. 

Maria, Maria, valde CONTRARIA, quomodo crescit 
hortulus tuus? 



184 LETTERS. 

Nunc majora canamus. 

Thomas, Thomas, de Islington, uxorem duxit die nuperi 
Dominica. Reduxit domum postera". Succedenti bacu- 
lum emit. Postridie ferit illam. ^grescit ilia subscquenti. 
Proxima (nempe Veneris) est mortua. Plurimum gestiit 
Thomas, quod appropinquanti sabbato effcrenda sit. 

Horner quidam Johannulus in angulo sedebat, artocreas 
quasdam deglutiens. Inseruit pollices, pruna manu evellens, 
et magnA voce exclamavit, " Dii boni, quam bonus puer fio !" 

Diddle-diddle-dumkins ! mens unicus filius Johannas cubi- 
tum ivit, integris braccis, caliga una tantum, indutus — 
Diddle-diddlc, &c. Da Capo. 

Hie adsum saltans Joannula. Cum nemo adsit mihi, 
semper resto sola. 

In his nugis carem diem consume, dum invigilo vale- 
tudini carioris nostras Emma;, quas apud nos jamdudum 
aegrotat. Salvere vos jubet mecum Maria mea, ipsa 
iutegra valetudine. 

Elia. 

Ah agro Enfeldiense datum, Aprilis nescio quibus Ca^ 
lendis — 

Davus sum, non calendarius. 
P. S. Perdita in toto est Billa Reformatura. 



FRAGMENTS FROM C. LLOYD'S LETTERS. 



My son is gone in spite of my haste; therefore, 
like the good preachers among Friends, who, when their 
subject has carried them from themselves, and they have 
got into a tone, often stop, and, suddenly recollecting 
themselves, drop their tone — so will I pause in my celerity 
and bad writing, which, to the eye, is worse than a tone 
to the ear. Indeed, so convinced am I that a tone is the 
natural consequence of impassioned espression, that, pro- 
vided they do not absolutely whine, I like the chaunt of 
the Friends far better than a more cold and intellectual 
modulation of the voice. Farewell, my dear Friend. 



I HAVE not read your last poems* so much as I 
could wish. I was visited, while in London, with a very 
dreadful illness, and since my return it has been borrowed 
till I am quite impatient at its absence; and I called the 
other day on one of the borrowers to solicit its return, I 

* Napoleon, &.c. 
16 * (185) 



186 FRAGMENTS OF LETTERS. 

should like to converse with you about it viva voce. I 
must say I do not like moral sentiments about conquerors. 
I could write, think, and read religiously about them ; but 
while men must have passions, and while I think ambition 
one of the noblest, (mind, humanly, and not religiously 
speaking,) I must say that I think the common sentiments 
against war, aggrandizement, &c., fall rather flat. My taste 
would rather lead me to panegyrize them imaginatively, 
and then to condemn them religiously. I am rather of the 
opinion of an accomplished female who once told me " she 
liked good fat passions." 



I HAD a very ample testimony from C. Lamb to 
the character of my last little volume. I will transcribe 
to you what he says, as it is but a note, and his manner is 
always so original, that I am sure the introduction of the 
merest trifle from his pen will well compensate for the ab- 
sence of any thing of mine : — " Your lines are not to be 
understood reading on one leg. They are sinuous,* and 
to be won with wrestling. I assure you in sincerity that 
nothing you have done has given me greater satisfaction. 
Your obscurity, when you are dark, which is seldom, is 
that of too much meaning, not the painful obscurity which 
no toil of the reader can dissipate ; not the dead vacuum 
and floundering place in which imagination finds no foot- 
ing; it is not the dimness of positive darkness, but of dis- 
tance; and he that reads and not discerns must get a 
better pair of spectacles. I admire every piece in the 

* So in orig. 



FROiM C. LLOYD. 187 

collection ; I cannot say the first is best ; when 1 do so, 
the last read rises up in judgment. To your Mother — to 
your Sister — is Mary dead? — they are all weighty with 
thought and tender with sentiment. Your poetry is like 
no other : — those cursed Dryads and Pagan trumperies of 
modern verse have put me out of conceit of the very name 
poetry. Your verses are as good and as wholesome as 
prose ; and I have made a sad blunder if I do not leave 
you with an impression that your present is rarely valued." 



nth Nov., 1822. 

It seems to me that it is impossible that a person 
should long together write with any interest, if no one is 
interested in his compositions. For myself, I frankly 
avow I never do write from any distant consideration of 
fame, or of establishing a literary charactei", but solely 
when the difficulty would rather be not, to write than to 
write. In this respect I am literally a Quaker poet. But 
then, as I grow oldei", and as the fervours of my imagina- 
tion abate, I doubt how far fits of inspiration would come 
on, if no one noticed their fruits. I associate with no one 
here out of my own family; though I am rich enough to 
live without a profession, I am not to indulge in any love 
of variety, in travelling, &c., and I really feel that my 
authorship is the sole source of interest out of myself, or of 
sympathies with my fellow-creatures, that remains to me. 
If I were not to write a word more, I have matter enough 
by me to make eight or ten volumes. What interest 



188 FRAGMENTS OF LETTERS. 

could there be in adding to this dead stock, if from time to 
time some of it were not embarked on a voyage of adven- 
ture? At least, so I feel; and feeling so, and finding 
here no one, not one, not even my wife, who seems to com- 
prehend this feeling, (for to say the truth of her, she has not 
that average leaven of vanity which, without authorizing 
you to call a character vain, makes her to sympathize with 
the cravings after sympathy in others,) I was the more 
gratified that you so completely seemed to enter into, and 
to understand, my case. 



Introductory Sonnet to the Supreme Being, 
which I had some intention of placing before the poems 
which I am now publishing, but which I have omitted — 
omitted, because I thought that the theme of this Sonnet 
arrogated too much for my poems. I have now simply 
dedicated them iu a Sonnet to my Father. 



O Thou, \vl)o wlicn thou niad'st tlu- licart of man, 

Iinplanlcd'st tlicrc, as paramount to all, 
Immortal Conscience ; do Thou deign to scan 

With favouring eye these lays, which would recall 
Man to his due allegiance. — Nothing can 

Thrive without Thee ; hence, at Thy throne I fall, 
And Thee implore to go forth in the van 

Of these my numbers. Lord of great and small ! 
Bless Thou these lays, and, with a reverent voice, 

Next to Thyself would I my father place. 



FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT. 189 

Close at thy threshold ; true to his youth's choice, 
His deeds with conscience ever have kept pace. 

Great Father, bid my earthly sire rejoice, 

A white-robed Christian in thy safe embrace.* 



[The following little note from Sir Walter Scott refers to some 
curious old MS. relating to Scottish History, lent to Sir Walter 
for his perusal, through Mr, Barton.] 



My dear Sir, 

I HAVE been lazy in sending you the two tran- 
scripts. In calling back the days of my youth, I was 
surprised into confessing what I might have as well kept 
to myself, that I had been guilty of sending persons a bat>- 
hunting to see the ruins of Melrose by moonlight, which 
I never saw myself. The fact is rather curious, for as I 
have often slept nights at Melrose, (when I did not reside 
so near the place,) it is singular that I have not seen it by 
moonlight on some chance occasion. However, it so 
happens that I never did, and must (unless I get cold by 
going on purpose) be contented with supposing that these 
ruins look very like other Grothic buildings which I have 
seen by the wan light of the moon. 

I was never more rejoiced in my life than by the safe 

* The Editor cannot hear that this noble Sonnet is to be found in 
any of C. Lloyd's published volumes. It is surely too good to be 
lost ; and that must be the excuse for printing it here. 



190 LETTERS. 

arrival of the curious papers. The naming of the regent 
Morton, instead of Murray, in the transcript, was a gross 
blunder of the transcriber, who had been dreaming of these 
two celebrated persons till he confused them in his noddle. 

I shall despatch this by a capable frank, having only to 
apologize for its length of arrival by informing you I have 
been absent in Dumfries-shire for some time, waiting on 
my young chief, like a faithful clansman. I am always 
Most faithfully yours, 

Walter Scott. 

4«/i October. 
Ahhotsford. 1824. 



Mr. Barton had been requested by a friend to ask Sir 
Walter Scott to copy for her, by way of Autograph, the 
well-known description of Melrose Abbey by moonlight: 
the petition was good-naturedly granted ; but instead of the 
usual ending, 

" Then go — but go alone the while — 
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ; 
And, home returning, sootlily swear 
Was never scene so sad and fair I" 

the poet had penned this amusing variation, 

Then go — and meditate with awe 
On scenes the author never saw, 
Who never wandcr'd by the moon 
To sec what could be seen by noon. 



POEMS. 



(191) 



POEMS. 



SONNET. 

Not in the shades of Academic bowers, 

Nor yet in classic haunts, where every breeze 
Wakes with its whispers music among trees, 

And breathes the fragrance of unnumber'd flowers, 

Has it been mine to nurse my minstrel powers. 
Nor have I, lull'd in literary ease, 
Dreamt of ascending, even by slow degrees, 

The glittering steep where Fame's proud temple towers. 

Yet have I been at times a listener 

To them whose hallow'd harps are now suspended 

In silence ! and have ventured to prefer 

A prayer in which both hope and fear were blended, 

That I might rank their fellow-worshipper 
In the esteem of some, when life is ended. 
17 (193) 



194 POEMS, 



GREAT BEALINGS CHURCHYARD. 



A SUMMER EVENING. 

It is not only while we look upon 

A lovely landscape, that its beauties please; 

In distant days, when we afor are gone 
From such, in fancy's idle reveries, 
Or moods of mind which memory loves to seize, 

It comes in living beauty, fresh as when 
We first beheld it : valley, hill, or trees 

O'ershadowing unseen brooks; or outstretch'd fen 

With cattle sprinkled o'er, exist, and charm again. 

Such pictures silently and sweetly glide 

Before my " mind's eye ; " and I welcome them 

The more, because their presence has supplied 
A joy as pure and stainless as the gem 
That morning finds on blossom, leaf, or stem 

Of the fair garden's queen, the lovely Rose, 
Ere breeze, or sunbeam, from her diadem. 

Have stol'n one brilliant, and around she throws 

Her perfumes o'er the spot that with her beauty glows. 



POEMS 195 

Bear witness many a loved and lovely scene, 

Which I no more may visit; are ye not 
Thus still my own? Thy groves of shady green, 

Sweet Gosfield ! or thou, wild, romantic spot ! 

Where, by grey craggy cliff, and lonely grot. 
The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed : 

Ye still remain as fresh, and unforgot, 
As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed 
Upon your charms ; and yet months, years, since then have 
sped 

Their silent course. And thus it ought to be, 
Should I sojourn far hence in distant years, 

Thou lovely dwelling of the dead ! with thee : 
For there is much about thee that endears 
Thy peaceful landscape ; much the heart reveres. 

Much that it loves, and all it could desire 
In Meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears 

Have been too busy, and we would retire 

E'en from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire. 

Then art thou such a spot as man might choose 
For still communion : all around is sweet, 

And calm, and soothing ; when the light breeze woos 
The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat, 
Whose interlacing branches, as they meet, 

O'ertop, and almost hide the edifice 

They beautify; no sound, except the bleat 

Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss 

Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss ? 



196 POEMS. 

"Light thiekeus;" and the moon advances ; slow 
Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels; 

Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low 
And mossy grey, her silver light reveals : 
Now quivering through the lime-tree foliage steals ; 

And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed, 
Whose grassy hillock not in vain appeals 

To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread, 

Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the dead ! 



BEALINGS CHURCHYARD. 

DECEMBER 19, 1835. 

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. M . 

Winter's stern winds sweep round 
The sepulchre where thy cold reliqucs lie; 

But thou hear'st not their sound 
As through the lofty leafless limes they sigh. 

While we who went to-day, 
With thoughts too deep for tears, unto thy worth 

Our last sad debt to pay. 
Think but of thee beside the blazing heai'th. 



POEMS. 197 

And now, with thankful heart 
Let us thy cherished memory enshrine; 

And, if our tears must start, 
Let them be brighten'd by a hope divine. 

Rest in thy quiet cell ! 
Till the last trumpet shall its silence burst; 

When at that quickening spell 
The dead in Christ shall joyfully rise first. 



TO FRIENDS 

GOING TO THE SEA-SIDE. 

Since Summer invites you to visit once more 
The haunts that you love upon Ocean's cool shore, 
Where billows are foaming and breezes are free. 
Accept at our parting a farewell from me. 

My fancy can picture the pleasures in view. 
Because I so often have shared them with you , 
But unable this season to taste them again, 
I must feast on the pleasure that flows from my pen. 
17* 



198 POEMS. 

The ramble at morning when morning awakes, 

And the sun through the haze like a beacon-fire breaks, 

Illuming to sea-ward the billows' white foam, 

And tempting the loiterer ere breakfast to roam. 

And then after breakfast, when all are got out, 
The saunter, the lounge, and the looking about ; 
The search aftw shells, and the eye glancing bright, 
If cornelian or amber should come into sight. 

And, sweetest of all, the last ramble at eve, 
When the splendours of daylight are taking their leave ; 
When the sun's setting rays, with a tremulous motion. 
Are reflected afar on the bosom of ocean. 

Oh ! pleasures there are which the pen cannot paint. 
And feelings to which all expression is faint ; 
And such to the bosom at sun-set are known, 
As we muse by the murmuring billows alone. 



POEMS. 199 



TO J. W. 



Thou hast roam'd by Deben's side, 

Seen the ebb and flow 
Of its radiant, rippling tide 

Daily come and go. 

Thou hast drawn the balmy air, 

Breathed the influence 
Of the breezes wandering there, 

Grather'd health from thence. 

Thou hast sojourn'd too awhile 

With kind hearts around; 
In their frank and cordial smile 

Friendly welcome found. 

Thou hast shared their sea-side houi's, 

And their country walk; 
With them in their garden bowers 

Held familiar talk. 

Now thy busier lot is cast 

In the world to be, 
Let the memory of the past 

Still abide with thee. 



200 POEMS. 



Give the world its rightful due 

Not one atom more; 
Keep unworldly thoughts and true 

In thy bosom's core ! 

Be such thoughts and feelings high 

Still thy better pai't; 
The world shall never cheat thine eye, 

Or paralyse thy heart. 



TWO SONNETS. 

I. 

GUIDO FAWKES. 

The city is alive ! through all her streets 

Is heard the sound of trump or beat of drum, 
The signal of the sentinels, or hum 

Deep but not loud, as rumour's tongue repeats 

Tidings of terror unto all she meets : 

While thousands, wrapt in expectation dumb. 
Are waiting — till from dungeon deep shall come 

The desperate agent in such daring feats. 



POEMS. 201 

He comes ! each straining eye, with gazing dim. 
On him is riveted ; his fearful name 
Low, broken murmurs only may proclaim ; 
Yet every glance, instinctive, turns to him. 
Tracing each feature, scanning every limb. 
As if his deed had won immortal fame. 



II. 
OLD GUY. 

It is a bright but cold November day; 
And in the centre of the village green 
A troop of dirty ragged boys are seen 

In poor and mean processional display. 

If vidgar Farce and Famine could be gay. 
One might conceive the spectacle had been 
Plotted and plann'd that hopeful pair between, 

So grim and gaunt its actors and array. 

How are the mighty fallen ! Is this the dread 
And fearless Guido; by each urchin's cry 
Hail'd but in sport, or hooted as "Old Guy," 

With whiten'd face begrimed with dirty red, 

In ribald mockery to the bonfire led? 
Such is the fame that ends in infamy! 



202 POEMS 



Not ours the vows of such as plight 

Their troth iu suuuy weather, 
While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 

To walk on flowers together. 

But we have loved as those who tread 

The thorny path of sorrow, 
With clouds above, and cause to dread 

Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies, 

Have drawn our spirits nearer; 
And render'd us, by sorrow's ties. 

Each to the other dearer. 

Love, born in hnurs of joy and mirth, 
With mirth and joy may perish ; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 

It looks beyond the clouds of time. 
And through death's shadowy portal; 

Made by adversity sublime, 
By faith and hope immortal. 



POEMS. 203 



ORFORD CASTLE. 



Beacon for barks that navigate the stream 

Of Ore or Aid, or breast the ocean spray: 

Landmark for inland travellers far away 
O'er heath and sheep-walk — as the morning beam 
Or the declining sunset's mellower gleam 

Lights up thy weather-beaten turrets grey; 

Still dost thou bear thee bravely in decay 
As if thy by-gone glory were no dream ! 
Yea, now with lingering grandeur thou look'st down 

From thy once fortified, embattled hill, 

As if thine ancient office to fulfil; 
And though thy keep be but the ruin'd crown 
Of Orford's desolate and dwindled town, 

Seem'st to assert thy sovereign honour still. 



204 POEMS. 



POOL OF BETHESDA. 



Around Bethesda's healing wave, 
Waiting to hear the rustling wing 

Which spoke the angel nigh who gave 
Its virtue to that holy spring, 

With patience, and with hope endued, 

Were seen the gather'd multitude. 

Among them there was one, whose eye 
Had often seen the waters stirr'd; 

Whose heart had often heaved the sigh, 
The bitter sigh of hope deferr'd; 

Beholding, while he suffer'd on. 

The healing A-irtue given — and gone 

No power had he ; no friendly aid 
To him its timely succour brought; 

But, while his coming he delay 'd. 
Another won the boon he sought; 

Until the Saviour's love was shown. 

Which heal'd him by a word alone ! 



POEMS. 205 

Had they who watch'd and waited there 
Been conscious who was passing by, 

With what unceasing, anxious care 

Would they have sought his pitying eye; 

And craved, with fervency of soul, 

His power Divine to make them whole ! 



But habit and tradition sway'd 

Their minds to trust to sense alone; 

They only hoped the angel's aid; 

While in their presence stood, unknown, 

A greater, mightier far than he. 

With power from every pain to free. 



Bethesda's pool has lost its power ! 

No angel, by his glad descent 
Dispenses that diviner dower 

Which with its healing waters went; 
But He, whose word surpass'd its wave, 
Is still omnipotent to save. 



Saviour ! thy love is still the same 
As when that healing word was spoke ; 

Still in thine all-redeeming name 

Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke ! 

! be that power, that love display'd, 

Help those whom thou alone canst aid ! 

18 



206 POEMS. 



A FULL-BLOWN ROSE. 

A FULL-BLOWN rose, in beauty's pride, 
By chance my wand'ring eye descried ; 
Its dewy fragrance, scatter'd wide. 
Perfumed the gales of morning. 

When evening sunbeams tinged the sky, 
I hasten 'd forth, again to spy 
The charms which struck my roving eye 
So early in the morning. 

But ah ! its beauties all were flown ! 
And all its humid fragrance gone ! 
All that the sun had glanced upon, 
So lovely in the morning. 

Wither'd by the scorching heat, 
It lay in fragments at my feet, 
No more my happy sight to greet 
On any future morning. 

So short, so frail is beauty's reign ! 
Who can the pensive sigh restrain? 
The longest date its charms can gain 
Is but a summer's mornino;! 



POEMS. 207 



TO LADY PEEL, 

WITH A COPT OF 
MISS BARTON'S " SCRIPTURE NARRATIVE." 

Inscribing these small tomes to thee, 
Lady, admits at least this plea, 

(Nor do I need another,) 
That in thy character I trace 
The matron virtues which should grace 

An English wife and mother. 

If such, and those whom most they love 
Our humble labours but approve. 

No higher compensation 
Could fall within the narrow scope 
Of our most cherish'd wish and hope 

To serve our generation. 



208 POEMS. 



SONNET. 



ON TRUE WORSHIP. 



The patriarch worsbipp'd leaning on his staff ! 
And well, methinks, it were, if such our creed 
That we, in every hour of truest need, 

From the same hidden fount could inly quaff : 

We trust in outward aids too much by half ! 
Could we within on " living bread " but feed, 
And drink of living streams, our souls would heed 

All hindering helps but as the husk and chaff. 
Then every day were holy ! every hour 

Each heart's true homage might ascend on high, 

Ascribing to the Eternal Majesty, 

And to the Lamb, thanksgiving, glory, power, 
Now and for ever ! till the ample dower 

Of earth's full praise with that of heaven should vie. 




POEMS. 209 



TO MY DAUaHTER. 

Sweet pledge of joys depai-ted ! as I lay 

Wrapt in deep slumber, I beheld thee led 

By thy angelic mother, long since dead — 
Methought upon her face such smiles did play 
As gild the summer morning. A bright ray 

Of lambent glory stream'd around her head. 

I gazed in rapture; love had banish 'd dread, 
Even as light the darkness drives away. 

Silent awhile ye stood — I could not move, 
Such sweet delight my senses did o'erpower; 

When, in mild accents of celestial love. 
Thy guardian spoke — " Cherish this opening flower 
With holy love ; that so the future hour 

Shall re-unite our souls in bliss above." 

[1811.] 



18 



210 POEMS. 

TEARS. 

" JESUS WEPT." John xi. 35. 

Not worthless are the tears 
When pure their fountain-head, 

Which human hopes and fears 
Compel us oft to shed. 

In grief or joy they tell 

Far more than words can teach; 

Theii* silence hath a spell 
Beyond the power of speech. 

In joy, though bright and brief. 
Its essence they make known; 

And how they soften grief 
The mourner's heart will own. 

And tears once fill'd His eye, 
Beside a mortal's grave, 

Who left his throne on high. 
The lost to seek and save. 

And fresh from age tor* age 
Their memory shall be kept; 

While man shall bless the page 
Which tells that Jesus wept! 



POEMS. 211 



IZAAK WALTON. 

Cheerful old man ! whose pleasant hours were spent 
Where Lea's still waters through their sedges glide ; 

Or on the fairer banks of peaceful Trent, 
Or Dove henim'd in by rocks on either side : 

Thy book is redolent of fields and flowers, 

Of freshly flowing streams and honey-suckle bowers. 

Although I reck not of the rod and line, 
Thou needest no such brotherhood to give 

Charm to thy artless pages — they shall shine, 
And thou depicted in them, long shalt live 

For many a one to whom thy craft may be 

A thing unknown, ev'n as it is to me. 

Thy love of nature, quiet contemplation, 

In meadows where the world was left behind ; 

Still seeking with a blameless recreation 
In troubled times to keep a quiet mind ; 

This, with thy simple utterance, imparts 

A pleasure ever new to musing hearts. 

And thou hast deeper feelings to revere. 
Drawn from a fountain even more divine. 

That blend thine own with memories as dear, 

With names our hearts with gratitude enshrine; — 

Holy George Herbert, Wotton, Ken, and Donne, 

The pious Hooker, Cranmer, Sanderson. 



212 POEMS. 



A CHILD'S MORNING HYMN. 

Once more the light of day I see; 

Lord, with it let me raise 
My heart and voice in song to Thee 

Of gratitude and praise. 

The ''busy bee" ere this hath gone 
O'er many a bud and bell; 

From flower to flower is humming on, 
To store its waxen cell. 

may I like the bee still strive 

Each moment to employ, 
And store my mind, that richer hive, 

With sweets that cannot cloy. 

The skylark from its lowly nest 

Hath soar'd into the sky. 
And by its joyous song exprcss'd 

Unconscious praise on high. 

My feeble voice and faltering tone 

No tuneful tribute bring; 
But Thou canst in my heart make known 

What bird can never sing. 



POEMS. 213 

Instruct me, then, to lift my heart 

To Thee in praise and prayer; 
And love and gratitude impart 

For every good I share : 

For all the gifts Thy bounty sends, 

For which so many pine; 
For food and clothing, home and friends, 

Since all these boons are Thine. 

Thus let me. Lord, confess the debt 

I owe Thee day by day ; 
Nor e'er at night or morn forget. 

To Thee, God, to pray ! 



A CHILD'S EVENINa HYMN. 

Before I close my eyes in sleep. 
Lord, hear my evening prayer; 

And deign a helpless child to keep 
With Thy protecting care. 

Though young in years, I have been taught 

Thy came to love and fear; 
Of Thee to think with solemn thought, 

Thy goodness to revere. 



214 POEMS. 

That goodness gives each simple flower 

Its scent and beauty too, 
And feeds it in night's darkest hour 

With heaven's refreshing dew. 

Nor will Thy mercy les.s delight 

The infant's God to be, 
Who through the darkness of the night 

For safety trusts to Thee. 

The little birds that sing all day 

In many a leafy wood, 
By Thee are clothed in plumage gay, 

By Thee supplied with food. 

And when at night they cease to sing, 

By Thee protected still. 
Their young ones sleep beneath thcii- wing, 

Secure from every ill. 

Thus may'st Thou guard with gracious arm 

The couch whereon I lie. 
And keep a child from every harm 

By Thy all-watchful eye. 

For night and day to Thee are one. 

The helpless arc Thy care. 
And for the sake of Thy dear Son, 

Thou hcar'st an infant's prayer. 



POEMS. 215 



BISHOP HUBERT, 



'Tis the hour of even now, 
And with meditative brow, 
Seeking truths as yet unknown, 
Bishop Hubert walks alone. 

Fain would he, with earnest thought, 
Nature's secret laws be taught; 
Learn the destinies of man. 
And creation's wonders scan. 

And, further yet, from these would trace 
Hidden mysteries of grace, 
Dive into the deepest theme, 
Solve redemption's glorious scheme. 

Far he has not roam'd before, 
On the solitary shore, 
He has found a little child 
By its seeming play beguiled. 

In the drifted barren sand 
It has scoop'd with baby hand 
Small recess, in which might float 
Sportive fairy's tiny boat. 



216 POEMS. 

From a hollow shell the while, 
See, 'tis filling, with a smile, 
Fool as shallow as may be 
With the waters of the sea. 

Hear the smiling bishop ask 
" What can mean such infant task ? " 
Mark that infant's answer plain — 
"'Tis to hold yon mighty main." 

"Foolish infant," Hubert cries, 
" Open if thou canst, thine eyes : 
Can a hollow scoop'd by thee 
Hope to hold the boundless sea?" 

Soon that child, on ocean's brim, 
Opes its eyes and turns to him : 
Well does Hubert read its look. 
Glance of innocent rebulic : 

While a voice is heard to say, 
"If the pool, thus scoop'd in play. 
Cannot hold the mighty sea, 
What must thy researches be? 

" Canst thou hope to make thine own 
Secrets known to God alone? 
Can thy faculty confined 
Compass the Eternal Mind?" 

Bishop Hubert turns away — 
He has learnt enough to-day. 



POEMS. 217 



THE MISSIONARY. 



[Ie went not forth, as man too oft hath done, 
Braving the ocean billows' wild uproar, 

[n hopes to gather, ere life's sands were run, 
Yet added heaps of mammon's sordid ore ; — 
He went not forth earth's treasures to explore, 

Where sleeps in sunless depths the diamond's ray ; 
Nor was he urged by love of classsic lore, 

His homage of idolatry to pay 

Where ancient heroes fought, or poets pour'd their lay. 

He left not home to cross the briny sea 
With the proud conqueror's ambitious aim, 

lo wrong the guileless, to enslave the free, 
And win a blood-stain 'd wreath of doubtful fame, 
By deeds unworthy of the Christian's name ; 

Nor to inspect with taste's inquiring eye 
Temple and palace of gigantic frame, 

Ov pyramid up-soaving to the sky, 

Irophies of art's proud power in ages long gone by. 
19 



218 POEMS. 

Nor did his fancy nurse the gentle dream 

Of nature's fond enthusiast ; who, intense 
In admiration of her charms, would seem 

To -worship her; forgetful of the offence 

Given to her great and glorious Maker thence : 
To him the woodland scenery's sylvan thrall, 

T)ie sunny vale, or cloud-capt eminence. 
The brooklet's murmur, or the cataract's fall. 
But waken'd thoughts of Him whose word had form'd 
them all. 

He went abroad — a follower of the Lamb, 

To spread the gospel's message far and wide ; 
In the dread power of Him, the great " I AM,' ' 

In the meek spirit of the Crucified ; 

With unction from the Holy Ghost supplied, — 
To war with error, ignorance, and sin. 

To exalt humility, to humble pride. 
To still the passions' stormy strife within ; 
Through wisdom from above immortal souls to win. 

To publish unto those who sat in night, 

And death's dark shadow, tidings of glad things ; 
How unto them the gospel's cheering light 

Was risen, with life and healing on its wings ; 

IIow he, the Lord of glory, King of kings, 
Their souls to save from sin's enthralling yoke, 

Had left his throne, where harps of golden strings, 
By seraphs tnuch'd, in heavenly music spoke ; 
And, coming down to earth, the chain of Satan broke. 



POEMS. 219 

How Christ for man upon the cross had died, 

And pour'd His blood to cleanse their guilt awaj ; 

That, plunged beneath its sin-etfacing tide, 
Their spirits made no more the spoiler's prey, 
Might stand before Him clothed in white array, 

The Saviour's ransom'd and redeem'd among, 
Who worship in his presence night and day, 

And join in that "innumerable throng" 

Whose voice is as the voice of many waters strong. 

Such was his errand. What though he might fare 

Year after year, along a foreign strand, 
A " lonely pilgrim, as his fathers were ; " — 

He trusted still his Master's guiding hand, 

And still he felt his humble faith expand — 
That He who sent him forth would ever prove 

A rock of shadow in the weary land ; 
And give him, in the riches of his love. 
To drink the way-side brook, and comfort from above. 

Thus did he journey on from day to day, 

'Mid savage tribes, a Missionary mild, 
Teaching and preaching Jesus, until they. 

First by his meek benevolence beguiled, 

Then by a mightier spirit, undefiled 
With aught of human weakness, touch'd and won, 

Were to their heavenly Father reconciled : 
And, through his well-beloved and glorious Son, 
To them God's kingdom came, by them his will was done. 



220 POEMS. 

Then through the influence of redeeming grace, 
Whose might can even human ■vviklncss tame, 

The savage soften'd, and the savage place 
A scene of blessedness and love became : 
And there, where bloody rites and deeds of shame, 

Under religion's name, were done before. 

Now, blessed change ! — Jehovah's holy name — 

His Son's — the Comforter's — along the shore 

In sounds of praise and prayer the wandering breezes bore. 

But what became of him, that lonely one, 

Who thus went forth, commission'd from on high ? 
He, when he saw his work of love was done. 

Felt also that his rest was drawing nigh ; 

And though it woke perchance a transient sigh 
Of natural regret, to think that he 

Should far from home and friends an exile die, — 
Yet could he humbly pray on bended knee, 
" Thy will, God ! not mine, accomplish'd be." 

Beneath a palm tree, by the house of prayer, 

Upon a bright and tranquil summer eve. 
He feebly sat; and round him gather'd there 

The little flock he was so soon to leave : 

With reverent affection did they cleave 
About him — men and women, young and old. 

With artless sorrow seem'd alike to grieve 
That he who led and kept them in the fold 
Must quit them, even for the hcav'n of whieh he told. 



POEMS. 221 

The}^ sang a hymn of thanks and praise to God ; 

And while its echoes floated yet in air, 
Their feeble pastor, kneeling on the sod, 

For them, and for himself, pour'd forth in prayer 

His wishes, hopes, affections, thanks, and care : — 
Rising, with grateful heart he look'd around, 

And when he saw that each and all were there 
To whom his spirit was so strongly bound. 
His blessing he pronounced, with low and falt'ring sound. 

They bore him home unto his lowly cot. 

And laid the dying paint upon his bed ; 
No mark of kind attention they forgot 

Toward him who long their hungry souls had fed : 

And when life's lingering spark at last was fled, 
They mourn'd for him with many a simple tear, 

Such as for pious parent should be shed : 
And taught their children ever to revere 
The memory of one so holy and so dear. 

They buried him beneath the lofty palm 

Where last in prayer his dying charge he gave ; 

While through the leaves the breezes whisper'd calm, 
M ixt with the murmur of the distant wave : 
And when, in after-years, the white man's grave, 

With its moss'd stone, beside old Ocean's brim, 
They pointed out to strangers, each would crave 

In broken speech, with eyes by tears made dim. 

That as he follow'd Christ, so they might follow him. 
19* 



222 POEMS 



OLD AGE. 

Old age ! thou art a bitter pill 

For liumankind to swallow; 
Fraught with full many a present ill, 

And fear of worse to follow. 

And yet thou art a medicine good, 

Not to be bought for money; 
Worse than the worst of nauseous food, 

Yet sweeter far than honey. 

Thy aches and cramps, thy weary gi'oans, 

Infirmities which breed them. 
Might move the very hearts of stones. 

If stones had hearts to heed them. 

But these must come, of course, with thee, 
And none dispute, or doubt them; 

Such may be borne, and wisest he 
Who pothers least about them. 

Old age ! be what thou wilt, thy reign 

Cannot endure for ever ; 
Feebleness, weariness, and pain 

Are links that soon must sever ! 

And if thy pains the soul recall 
To heavenly truth and warning, 

Who would regret the ruin'd wall 
That lets in such a morning? 



POEMS. 223 



PENN'S TKEATY WITH THE INDIANS. 



The only treaty framed in Christian love 
Without a single oath; and by that token 

Recorded and approved in heaven above, 
And in a world of sin and strife unbroken ! 



Dews that nourish fairest flowers, 
Fall unheard in stillest hours; 

Streams which keep the meadows green, 
Often flow themselves unseen. 

Violets hidden on the ground, 
Throw their balmy odours round; 

Viewless in the vaulted sky, 
Larks pour forth their melody. 

Emblems these, which well express 

Virtue's modest loveliness; 
Unobtrusive and unknown, 

Felt but in its fruits alone! 



224 POEMS, 



ALDBOROUGH. 



TO THE MEMORY OF CRABBE. 

How could I tread this winding shore, 

In sadness, or in glee. 
By Thee so often paced of yore. 

Nor turn, in thought, to thee? 

For here were pass'd thy early days, 
With fortune waging strife; 

And here thy muse's embryo lays 
First struggled into life. 

Thy verse hath stamp'd on all around 

The impress of its truth. 
And rcndcr'd far and near renown'd 

"The Borough" of thy youth! 

The self-same sea in foam may break 
On shores less tame or drear; 

But were it only for thy sake, 
These to my heart were dear. 



POEMS. 225 



TO A FRIEND, 



ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER. 

Though nature's feelings rend thy heart, 

Shock' d by a parent's death; 
Though friendship could not turn the dart 

Which took his vital breath; 

The record of my feeble pen, 

Engi-aven on thy breast. 
May welcome to thee once again 

The pillow of thy rest. 

Though quick the change, and prompt the stroke 

That snapt the tender chain 
Of life, it saved him from the yoke 

Of slow consuming pain. 

With much to hope and nought to fear 

Beyond the silent tomb. 
Peaceful was once his dwelling here; 

More peaceful now his home. 



226 POEMS. 

To hiin whose task was daily done, 
Death could be no surprise; 

For well he knew that life's last sun 
Would with his Saviour rise. 

The splendour of that promised morn 
What numbers can set forth, 

When robes of glory shall adorn 
The majesty of worth? 

Still on his manly face and form 
Thy memory long may dwell. 

And still affection's yearnings warm 
Thy wounded bosom swell. 

Nature such feelings will betray, 
And own the tribute duo; 

But faith should wipe the tear away, 
And inward peace renew. 

The path a righteous sire has trod 
Distinctly points to heaven : 

The grace and goodness of his God 
To thee are also given. 

That path observed, what rapture sweet. 

Beyond my skill to paint. 
Thy panting soul shall feel to greet 

Thy father in the saint! 



POEMS. 



227 



IN THE FIRST LEAF OF AN ALBUM. 

The warrior is proud when the battle is won ; 
The eagle is proud as he soars to the sun ; 
The beauty is proud of the conquest she gains ; 
And the humblest of poets is proud of his strains : 
Then forgive me, my friend, if some pride should be mine, 
When I fill the first leaf in an Album of thine. 

The miser is glad when he adds to his hoard; 
The epicure placed at the sumptuous board ; 
The courtier when smiled on ; but happier the lot 
Of the friend who though absent is still unforgot : 
Then believe that a feeling of gladness is mine, 
When I fill the first page of an Album of thine. 

But my pride and my pleasure are chasten' d with fears, 
As I look down the vista of far distant years, 
And reflect that the progress of time must ere long 
Bring oblivion to friendship, and silence to song : 
Thus thinking, what mingled emotions are mine, 
As I fill the first leaf in an Album of thine ! 

Yet idle and thankless it were to allow 
Such reflec,tions to sadden the heart and the brow ; 
"We know that earth's pleasures are mix'd with alloy. 
But if virtue approve them, 'tis wise to enjoy: 
And this brief enjoyment at least shall be mine. 
As I write my name first in this Album of thine. 



228 POEMS, 



A STREAM. 



It flows through flowery meads, 
Gladdening the herds that on its margin browse ; 

Its quiet bounty feeds 
The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs. 

Gently it murmurs by 
The village churchyard with a plaintive tone 

Of dirge-like melody. 
For worth and beauty modest as its own. 

More gaily now it sweeps 
B}' the small school-house, in the sunshine bright, 

And o'er the pebbles leaps. 
Like happy hearts by holiday made light. 



SABBATH DAYS. 

MODERNIZED FROM VAt'CriANS "SILEX SCINTILLANS." 

Types of eternal rest — fair buds of bliss. 

In heavenly flowers expanding week by week ; 

The next world's gladness imaged forth in this — 
Days of whose worth the Christian's heart can speak. 



POEMS. 229 

Eternity in time — the steps by which 

We climb to future ages — lamps that light 

Man through his darker days, and thought enrich, 
Yielding redemption for the week's dull flight. 

Wakeners of prayer in man — his resting bowers 

As on he journeys in the narrow way, 
Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hours 

Are waited for, as in the cool of day. 

Days fixt by Grod for intercourse with dust. 
To raise our thoughts and purify our powers ; 

Periods appointed to renew our trust — 
A gleam of glory after six days' showers. 

A milky way marked out through skies else drear, 
By radiant suns that warm as well as shine : 

A clue which he who follows knows no fear, 

Though briers and thorns around his path may twine. 

Foretastes of heaven on earth — pledges of joy 
Surpassing Fancy's flights and Fiction's story — 

The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy. 
And the bright out-courts of immortal glory. 



20 



230 POEMS. 



SONNET 



WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 



The breath of Spring is stirring in the wood, 

Whose budding boughs confess the genial gale ; 

And thrush and blackbird tell their tender tale ; 
The hawthorn tree, that leafless long has stood, 
Shows signs of blossoming; the streamlet's flood 

Hath shrunk into its banks, and in each vale 

The lowly violet, and the primrose pale, 
Have lured the bee to seek his wonted food. 
Then up ! and to your forest haunts repair. 

Where Robin Hood once held his revels gay ; 

Yours is the greensward smooth, and vocal spray ; 
And I, as on your pilgrimage ye fare. 
In all your sylvan luxuries shall share 

When I peruse them in your minstrel lay. 



POEMS. 231 



SONNET. 



TO THE SAME. 



Winter hatli bound the brooks in icy chains ; 
The bee that murmur'd in the cowslip bell, 
Now feasts securely in his honey'd cell ; 

Silence is on the woods and on the plains, 

And darkening clouds and desolating rains 

Have man-'d your forest-fountain's quiet spell : 
Yet, though retired from these awhile ye dwell, 

Your heart's best hoard of poesy remains. 

The sports of childhood, the exhaustless store 

Of home-born thoughts and feelings dear to each, 
Converse, or silence eloquent as speech ; 

History's rich page, tradition's richer lore 

Of tale and legend prized in days of yore ; — 
These, worthy of the muse, are in your reach. 



232 POEMS. 



SONNET. 

IN MEMORIAL OF ELIZABETH FRY. 

Thy name, now writ in heaven, will live on earth, 
So long as human hearts are left to prize 
That sterling virtue whose deep source supplies 

Each Christian grace, a woman's highest worth ! 

And Heaven forbid we e'er should dread a dearth 
Of these in England ; where the good and wise 
Have, by their reverence of such sanctities, 

Honour'd the country which had given them birth. 

True gospel preacher of that law of love 
By Jesus taught; nor for thyself would I 
Indite this simple brief obituary ! 

May thy example kindred spirits move 

To follow thee ; and thus themselves approve 
Number'd with them whose record is on high ! 



POEMS. 238 



ON SOME ILLUSTRATIONS 



COWPER'S "RURAL WALKS." 



Why are these tamer landscapes fraught 
With charms whose meek appeal 

To sensibility and thought 
The heart is glad to feel? 

Cowper, thy muse's magic skiU 
Has made them sacred ground; 

Thy gentle memory haunts them still, 
And casts a spell around. 

The hoary oak, the peasant's nest, 
The rustic bridge, the grove, 

The turf thy feet have often prest. 
The temple and alcove; 

The shrubbery, moss-house, simple urn, 
The elms, the lodge, the hall, — 

Each is thy witness in its turn. 
Thy verse the charm of all. 
20* 



234 POEMS. 

Thy verse, no less to nature true 

Than to religion dear, 
O'er every object sheds a hue 

That long must linger here. 

Amid these scenes the hours were spent 
Of which we reap the fruit; 

And each is now thy monument, 
Since that sweet lyre is mute. 

" Here, like the nightingale's, were pour'd 

Thy solitary lays," 
Which sought the glory of the Lord, 

"Nor ask'd for human praise." 



THE WALL-FLOWER. 

Delightful flower, whose fair and fragrant bloom 
Tinges with beauty many a mouldering tower, 

Lending a grace to its declining doom 

Beyond the splendour of its proudest hour. 

What art thou like ? the cheerful smile of those 

Whose eyes are dim with years, whose locks are grey. 

The tranquil brightness of whose evening shows 
They gave to God the morning of their day. 



POEMS. 



235 



'BUT IT SHALL COME TO PASS, THAT AT EVENING TIME IT 
SHALL BE LIGHT." Zech. xiv. 7. 



We journey through a vale of tears, 

By many a cloud o'ercast ; 
And worldly cares, and worldly fears. 

Go with us to the last ! 
Not to the last — Thy word hath said. 

Could we but read aright: 
Poor pilgrim! lift in hope thy head; 

At eve there shall be light. 

Though earth-born shadows now may shroud 

Thy thorny path awhile; 
God's blessed Avord can rend each cloud, 

And bid the sunshine smile: 
Only believe, in living faith. 

His love and power Divine, 
And, ere life's sun shall set in death. 

His light shall round thee shine. 

When tempest-clouds are dark on high, 

His bow of love and peace 
Shines sweetly in the vaulted sky. 

Betokening storms shall cease ! 
Walk on thy way, with hope unchill'd, 

By faith, and not by sight: 
So shalt thou own his word fulfill'd. 

At eve it shall be light. 



236 POEMS 



WINTER EVENINGS. 

The summer is over, 

The autumn is past, 
Dark clouds o'er us hover, 
Loud whistles the blast; 
But clouds cannot darken, nor tempest destroy 
The soul's sweetest sunshine, the heart's purest joy. 

The Bright fire is flinging 

Its happy warmth round: 
The kettle too singing, 
And blithe is its sound : 
Then welcome in evening, and shut out the day, 
And with it its soul-fretting troubles away. 

Our path is no bright one. 

From morning till eve ; 
Our task is no light one. 
Till day takes its leave : 
But now let us cheerfully pause on our way, 
And be thankfully cheerful, and blamelessly gay. 

We '11 turn to the pages 

Of history's lorej 
Of bards and of sages 
The beauties explore : 
And share o'er the records we love to unroll 
The " feast of the reason and flow of the soul." 



POEMS. 237 

To you who have often, 

In life's later years, 
Brought kindness to soften 
Its cares and its fears; 
To you, with true feeling, your Poet and Friend, 
The joys you have heighten'd may fondly commend. 



'DESPISE NOT THOU THE CHASTENING OF THE ALMIGHTY.' 
Job v. 17. 



The sunshine to the flower may give 
The tints that charm the sight. 

But scentless would that flow'ret live 
If skies were always bright; 

Dark clouds and showers its scent bestow, 

And purest joy is born of woe. 

He who each bitter cup rejects, 

No living spring shall quaff; 
He whom Thy rod in love corrects. 

Shall lean upon Thy staff: 
Happy, thrice happy, then, is he 
Who knows his chast'ning is from Thee. 



238 POEMS 



ON SOME PICTURES. 

They err'd uot who relied for fame 
On works of such magnificence ; 

Whose charms, unchangeably the same, 
Surprise and ravish soul and sense. 

For here, though long since dead, they live 
With power to waken smiles and tears; 

And to unconscious canvass give 

What lived and breathed in distant years , 

What still shall captivate, when we 
Who now with admiration gaze, 

Like those who fashioned them, shall be 
The creatures of departed days. 

Still shall that sleeping infant's face, 

Beauty and innocence reveal ; 
That sainted mother's matron grace 

To every mother's heart appeal. 

Those misty mountains still shall rise, 
As now they do; those vales expand; 

And still those torrents, trees, and skies, 
Tell of each master's magic hand. 



POEMS. 239 



As I roam'd on the beach, to my memory rose 
The bliss I had tasted in moments gone by ; 

When my soul could be soothed in a scene of repose, 
And my spirit exult in an unclouded sky ! 

I thought of the past ; and while thinking, thy name 
Came uncalled to my lips, but no language it found ; 

Yet my heart felt how dear and how hallow'd its claim — 
I could think, though my tongue could not utter a sound. 

The beginning and end of our love was before me, 
And both touch'd a cord of the tenderest tone ; 

Thy spirit, then near, shed its influence o'er me, 
And told me that still thou wert truly mine own. 

I thought at that moment (how dear was the thought !) 
There still was a union that death could not break; 

And if with some sorrow the feeling were fraught, 
Yet even that sorrow was sweet for thy sake. 

Thus musing on thee, every object around 

Seem'd to borrow thy sweetness to make itself dear ; 

And each murmuring wave reach' d the shore with a sound 
As soft as the tones of thy voice to mine ear. 



240 POEMS 



THE PHILISTINE CHAMPION. 

Though be of Gath no more 

The living God defy, 
Champions like him of yore 

Satan can now supply. 

The champions he can call, 
Though hid from mortal sight, 

Are deadlier in their thrall 
Than that fierce giant's might. 

They rise not in the field 
Of war with warlike mien; 

But in the heart conceal 'd, 
They fight for him unseen. 

Lust, with its wanton eye. 

False shame, and servile fear; 

Despair, whose icy sigh 

Would freeze contrition's tear; — 

Doubt, with its scornful jest; 

Pride, with its haughty brow; — 
These, lurking in the breast, 

Are Satan's champions now. 



POEMS 241 



Vainly our strength we boast 
Or reason's triumphs tell, 

Sin's hydra-headed host 

Anns not our own must quell. 

Be ours, then, those alone 
Grod's word and grace bestow j 

Faith's simple sling and stone 
Shall lay each giant low. 



LEISTON ABBEY BY MOONLiaHT. 



Imposing must have been the sight 

Ere desolation found thee, 
When morning breaking o'er thee bright, 

With new-born glory crown'd thee: 

When, rising from the neighboui'ing deep, 
The eye of day survey'd thee ; 

Aroused thine inmates from their sleep, 
And in his beams array'd thee. 

21 



242 POEMS. 

And not to Fancy's eye alone 
Thine earlier glories glisten ; 

Her ear recovers many a tone 
To which 'tis sweet to listen. 



Methinks I hear the matin song 
From those proud arches pealing; 

Now in full chorus borne along, 
Now into distance stealing. 

But yet more beautiful by far 

Thy silent ruin sleeping 
In the clear midnight, with that star 

Through yonder archway peeping. 

More beautiful that ivy fringe 
That crests thy turrets hoary, 

Touch'd by the moonbeams with a tinge 
As of departed glory. 

IMore spirit-stirring is the sound 
Of night-winds softly sighing 

Thy roofless walls and arches round, 
And then in silence dying. 



POEMS. 243 



THE VALLEY OF FERN. 



There is a lone valley, few charms can it number, 

Compared with the lovely glens north of the Tweed ; 
No mountains enclose it where morning mists slumber, 

And it never has echoed the shepherd's soft reed. 
No streamlet of crystal, its rocky banks laving, 

Flows through it, delighting the ear and the eye ; 
On its sides no proud forests, their foliage waving. 

Meet the gales of the autumn or summer wind's sigh ; 
Yet by me it is prized, and full dearly I love it. 

And oft my steps thither I pensively turn ; 
It has silenca within, heaven's proud arch above it, 

And my fancy has named it the Valley of Fern. 



deep the repose which its calm recess giveth, 

And no music can equal its silence to me; 
When broken, 'tis only to prove something liveth. 

By the note of the sky-lark, or hum of the bee. 
On its sides the green fern to the breeze gently bending, 

"With a few stunted trees, meet the wandering eye ; 
Or the furze and the broom, their bright blossoms extending, 

With the braken's soft verdure delightfully vie ; — 



244 POEMS. 

These are all it can boast ; yet, when Fancy is dreaming, 
Her visions, which poets can only discern. 

Come crowding around, in unearthly light beaming. 
And invest with bright beauty the Valley of Fern. 



Sweet valley, in seasons of grief and dejection, 

I have sought in thy bosom a shelter from care ; 
And have found in my musings a bond of connexion 

With thy landscape so peaceful, and all that was there : 
In the verdure that soothed, in the flowers that brighten'd, 

In the blackbird's soft note, in the hum of the bee, 
I found something that luU'd, and insensibly lighten'd. 

And felt grateful and tranquil while gazing on thee. 
Yes, moments there ai-e, when mute nature is willing 

To teach, would proud man but be humble and learn ; 
When her sights and her sounds on the heart-strings are 
thrilling ; 

And this I have felt in the Valley of Fern. 



For the bright chain of being, though widely extended, 

Unites all its parts in one beautiful whole. 
In which grandeur and grace are enchautingly blended. 

Of which God is the centre, the light, and the soul. 
And holy the hope is, and sweet the sensation. 

Which this feeling of union in solitude brings 
It gives silence a voice, and to calm contemplation 

Unseals the pure fountain whence happiness springs. 



POEMS. 245 

Then nature most loved in her loneliest recesses, 
Unveils her fair features, and softens her stern ; 

And spreads, like that being who bounteously blesses, 
For her votary a feast in the Valley of Fern. 



And at times in its confines companionless straying, 

Pure thoughts born in stillness have pass'd through my 
mind; 
And the spirit within, theii* blest impulse obeying, 

Has soar'd from this world on the wings of the wind; 
The pure sky above, and the still scene around me. 

To the eye which survey'd them, no clear image brought : 
But my soul seem'd entranced in the vision which bound me, 

As by magical spell, to the beings of thought ; 
And to him their dread Author, the fountain of feeling, 

I have bow'd, while my heart seem'd within me to burn ; 
And my spirit contrited, for mercy appealing. 

Has call'd on his name in the Valley of Fern. 



Farewell, lovely valley, when earth's silent bosom 

Shall hold him who loves thee, thy beauties may live ; 
And thy turf's em'rald tint, and thy broom's yellow blossom, 

Unto loiterers like him soothing pleasure may give. 
As brightly may morning, thy graces investing 

With light and with life, wake thy inmates from sleep ; 
And as softly the moon, in still loveliness resting 

To gaze on its charms, thy lone landscape may steep. 
21=^ 



246 POEMS. 

Then should friend of the bard, who hath paid with his praises 
The pleasure thou'st yielded, e'er seek thy sojourn, 

Should one tear for his sake fill the eye while it gazes, 
It may fall unreproved in the Valley of Fern. 



AN INVITATION. 

My fireside friend, the moon to-night, 
Moore says, is near the full; 

My ingle-nook is warm and bright, 
K I be cold and dull. 

But, that I may resemble it, 

I need a guest like thee 
Beside its cheerful blaze to sit 

And share its warmth with me. 

Iron sharpens iron — the kindling touch 
Of steel strikes fire from stone; 

That friend for friend can do as much 
We both of us have known. 

Then come, and let us try once more 

On topics grave, or gay, 
How converse, or the muse's lore, 

Can while an hour away. 



POEMS, 



AUTUMN 



247 



Hoarser gales are round us blowing, 

Clouds drive o'er the sky; 
Day by day is shorter growing, 

Weary nights are nigh. 

Morn and eve are chill and dreary. 
Birds have lost their mirth; 

Whispering leaves, of converse weary. 
Silent sink to earth. 

Flowers are in the garden faded, 

From the fields are fled; 
Many a nook the blossom shaded 

With the seed is spread. 

Dewy drops, the long grass bending, 

Glitter bright, yet chill; 
Earth is cold, and showers descending 

Make her colder still. 

Brighter skies and warmer weather 

Made our fancies roam; 
Winter binds our hearts together 

Kound the fire at home. 



248 POEMS 



SPRING. 

WRITTEN FOR A CHILD'S BOOK. 

The bleak winds of winter are past, 
The frost and the snow are both gone, 

And the trees are beginning at last 
To put theii" green liveries on. 

And now if you look in the lane, 

And along the warm bank, may be found 

The violet in blossom again. 

And shedding her perfume around. 

The primrose and cowslip arc out, 

And the fields arc with daisies all gay, 

While butterflies, flitting about. 
Are glad in the sunshine to play. 

Not more glad than the bee is to gather 
New honey to store in his cell; 

He too is abroad this fine weather. 
To rifle cup, blossom, and bell. 

The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush 
Are brimful of nmsic and glee; 

They have each got a nest in some bush. 
And the rook has built his on a tree. 



POEMS. 249 

The lark's home is hid in the corn, 
But he springs from it often on high, 

And warbles his welcome to morn. 
Till he looks like a speck in the sky. 



0, who would be sleeping in bed 

When the skies with such melody ring, 

And the bright eartli beneath him is spread 
With the beauty and fragrance of spring? 



IN AN ALBUM. 

How strange the thought — a day draws nigh, 
Involved in present mystery. 
When names which here have met before 
May meet again — one moment more ! 



When amid throngs of wakening dead 
The Book of Life shall be outspread! 
grateful bliss, beyond compare, 
To find our names recorded there! 



250 POEMS. 



SONNET. 

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH GURNEY. 1831. 

To be preserved from " sudden death" we pray : 
And many have just cause to breathe the prayer, 
Whom Grace hath not instructed to prepare 

For that most awful summons. — Happy they 

Whom He, the Light, the Life, the Truth, the Way, 
Hath train'd in living faith His cross to bear; 
Such only shall the crown immortal wear. 

And stand before Him clothed in white array ! 

Believing thee all ready, then, shall we 
So selfishly thy sudden call profane. 
And mourn a captive's quickly sever'd chain ? 

Oh ! let us rather thank thy God for thee ! 

Trusting this line thy Epitaph may be, 

" To me to live was Christ ! to die is gain ! " 



POEMS, 



251 



TO JOANNA, 

HER SENDING ME THE LEAP OF A FLOWER GATHERED IN 
WORDSWORTH'S GARDEN* 

Joanna! thougli I well can guess 
That in mirth's very idleness, 

And raillery's enjoyment, 
This leaf is sent; it shall not lose 
Its errand, but afford the Muse 

Some minutes' light employment. 

Thou sent'st it, in thy naughty wit. 
As emblem, type, or symbol, fit 

For a mere childish rhymer; 
And I accept it, not as such. 
But as indicative of much 

Lovelier and far sublimer. 

I own, as over it I pore. 
It is a simple leaf, no more : 

And further, without scandal, 
It is so delicate and small 
One sees 'twas never meant at all 

For vulgar clowns to handle. 

* Written at a time when Wordsworth was appreciated by 
very few. 



252 POEMS. 

But in itself, for aught I see, 
'Tis perfect as a leaf can be; 

For can I doubt a minute, 
That on the spot where fii'st it grew, 
It had each charm of shape and hue, 

And native sweetness in it. 



Thus sever'd from the stem where first 
To life and light its beauty burst, — 

It brings to recollection 
A fragment of the poet's lay, 
Tom from its native page away, 

For critical dissection. 



But 'tis not by one leaf alone 
The beauty of the flower is known j 

Nor do I rank a poet 
By parts, that critics may think fit 
To quote, who, "redolent of wit," 

Take up his words to show it. 



If on its stem this leaf display'd 
Beauty which sought no artful aid. 

And scatter'd fragrance round it; 
K the sweet flower on which it grew 
Was graceful, natural, lovely too. 

Delighting all who found it; — 



POEMS. 253 

Then will I own that flower to be 
A type of "Wordsworth, or of thee; 

For kindred virtues grace you; 
And though the bard may think me bold, 
And. thou may'st half resolve to scold, 

I in one page will place you ! 



THE SOLITARY TOMB. 



Not a leaf of the poplar above me stirr'd. 
Though it stii' with a breath so lightly; 

Not a farewell note sang the sweet singing bird 
To the sun that was setting brightly. 

I stood alone on the quiet hill, 

The quiet vale before me; 
And the spirit of nature serene and still 

Gathered around and o'er me. 

There was the Deben's glittering flood 
Far away in its channel sweeping; 

And under the hill-side where I stood 
The dead in their graves were sleeping. 
22 



254 POEMS. 

Quiet their place of burial seem'd, 
Where trouble could never enter; 

And sweetly the rays of sunset beam'd 
On the solitary tomb in its centre. 

And often when I have wander'd here, 
And in many moods have ^^ew'd it, 

With many a form to memory dear 
My fancy has endued it. 

Sometimes it look'd like a lonely sail 
Far away on the deep green billow; 

And sometimes like a lamb in the vale 
Asleep on its grassy pillow. 

He that lies under was on the seas 
In his days of youth a ranger; 

Borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze, 
Little cared he for danger. 

And yet through peril and toil he kept 
The freshness of gentlest feeling; 

Never a tear has woman wept 
A tenderer heart revealing. 

But here he sleeps — many there axe 
Who love his lone tomb and revere it; 

And one who, like yon evening star 
Far away, yet is ever near it. 



POEMS. 255 



IVE-aiLL. 



The pride that springs from high descent 

May be no pride of mine; 
My lowlier views are well content 

To claim a humble line : 
Fancy shall wing no daring flight, 

And rear no lofty dome; 
Ive-gilFs small hamlet her delight, 

Ive-gill her modest home. 

And now before my inward eye 

I see a lowly vale; 
The silent stars are in the sky, 

And moonlight's lustre pale 
Illumes its scatter'd cots and trees. 

While with a tuneful song, 
Louder and steadier than the breeze, 

Ive gladly flows along. 

The sun comes forth — the valley smiles 

In morning's blithe array; 
The song of birds the ear beguiles 

From every glistening spray; 



256 POEMS. 

The bee is on her journey gone 
To store her humble hive; 

And still in music rolling on 
Is heard the gladsome Ive. 

In such a spot I love to dream 

That ancestor of mine 
Once dwelt, and saw on Ive's fair stream 

The cloudless morning shine; 
I love to trace back "kith and kin" 

To air so fresh and free, 
And cherish still an interest in 

The bonnie North countrie. 



The rose which in the sun's bright rays 
Might soon have droop'd and perish'd, 

With grateful scent the shower repays 
By which its life is cherish'd. 

And thus have e'en the young in yeai-s 
Found flowers within that flourish, 

And yield a fragrance fed with teai'S 
That joy could never nourish. .. 



POEMS. 257 



"WHICH THINGS ARE A SHADOW." 

I SAW a stream whose waves were bright 

With morning's dazzling sheen; 
But gathering clouds, ere fall of night, 
Had darken'd o'er the scene : 
"How like that tide," 
My spirit sigh'd, 
"This life to me hath been!" 

The clouds dispersed; the glowing west 

Was bright with closing day 
And o'er the river's peaceful breast 
Shone forth the sunset ray : — 
My spirit caught 
The soothing thought, 
"Thus life might pass away." 

I saw a tree with ripening fruit 

And shady foliage crown'd; 
But ah ! the axe was at its root, 
And fell'd it to the ground : 
Well might that tree 
Recall to me 
The doom my hopes had found. 
22* 



258 POEMS. 

The fire consumed it ; but I saw 

Its smoke ascend on high — 
A shadowy type, beheld with awe, 
Of that which will not die, 
But from the grave 
Will rise and have 
A refuge in the sky. 



TO AN OLD GATEWAY. 

Tnou wast the earliest monument 

Of what in former days 
Had once been deem'd magnificent. 

Which met my boyish gaze. 
And first emotions kindled then. 
Now seem to start to life again, 
As thou, when morning's rays 
First strike upon thine ancient head. 
All grey and ivy-garlandcd. 

Thrx)ugh such a gate as this perchance, 

Methought, once issued free. 
All I have read of in romance, 
And, reading, half could sec; 
Robed priests advancing one by one, 
And banners gleaming in the sun, 

And knights of chivalry : 
Until I almost sccm'd to hear 
The sound of trumpet thrilling near. 



POEMS. 



259 



"'Twas idlesse all" — such flights as please 

A castle-building boy, 
Whom Nature early taught to seize 

Far more than childish toy, — 
The forms of fancy, free to range 
O'er rhyme and record old and strange, 

And with romantic joy 
Who even then was wont alone 
To dream adventures of his own. 

Alas! the morning of the soul 
Has heavenly brightness in it; 

And as the mind's first mists unroll, 
Makes years of every minute — 

Years of ideal joy: — life's path 

At first such dewy freshness hath, 
'Tis rapture to begin it; 

But soon, too soon, the dew-drops di-y. 

Or glisten but in sorrow's eye. 

It boots but little — smiles and tears, 

Even from beauty beaming. 
Must fade alike with fleeting years, 

Like phantoms from the dreaming: 
And never can they be so bright 
As when life's sweet and dawning light 

On both by turns was gleaming; 
Unless it be when, unforgot, 
We feel "they were and they are not." 



260 POEMS. 



FIRESIDE QUATRAINS. 

TO CHARLES LAMB. 

It is a mild and lovely winter night, 

The breeze without is scarcely heard to sigh ; 

The crescent moon and stars of twinkling light 
Are shining calmly in a cloudless sky. 

Within the fire burns clearly : in its rays 

My old oak book-case wears a cheerful smile j 

Its antique mouldings brighten'd by the blaze 
Might vie with any of more modern style. 

That rural sketch — that scene in Norway's land 
Of rocks and pine trees by the torrent's foam — 

That landscape traced by Gainsborough's youthful hand, 
Which shows how lovely is a peasant's home — 

That Virgin and her Child, with those sweet boys — 
All of the fire-light own the genial gleam ; 

And lovelier far than in day's light and noise 
At this still hour to me their beauties seem. 

One picture more there is, which should not be 

Uuhonour'd or unsung, because it bears 
In many a lonely hour my thoughts to thee, 

Heightening to fancy every charm it wears — 



POEMS. 261 

A quaint familiar group — a mother mild 

And young and fair, who fain would teach to read 

That urchin, by her patience unbeguiled, ^ 

The volume open on her lap to heed. 

With fingers thrust into his. cars, he looks 

As much he wish'd the weary task were done ; 

And more, fxr more, of pastime than of books 
Lurks in that arch dark eye so full of fun. 

Graver, or in the pouts, (I know not well 
Which of the twain,) his elder sister plies 

Her needle so, that it is hard to tell 

What the full meaning of her downcast eyes. 

Dear Charles, if thou shouldst haply chance to know 
Where such a picture hung in days of yore, 

Its highest worth, its deepest charm, to show 
I need not tax my rhymes or fancy more. 

It is not womanhood in all its grace, 

And lovely childhood plead to me alone ; 
Though these each stranger still delights to trace, 

And with congratulating smile to own ; 

No — with all these my feelings fondly blend 
A hidden charm unborrow'd from the eye ; 

That wakes the memory of my absent friend, 
And chronicles the pleasant hours gone by. 



262 POEMS. 



SONNET. 

TO THE SISTER OF AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW. 

" Heaven lies about us in our infancy !" 
If so, we should not with indifference meet 
Aught that recalls a memory so sweet 

As one of bright and early days gone by ! 

For, could we but abide continually 

As we were wont in hours so fair and fleet. 
Like little children, guiltless of deceit, 

This o'er the world were glorious mastery ! 

My school-mate's sister ! none of us can add 

One year to life's brief span, or take from thence : 
Yet ought we not, dear friend, to boiTow hence 

Desponding thoughts, and make our spirits sad ; 

But holier aspirations, to be clad 

In robes more white than our first innocence ! 



POEMS. 263 



THE CURSE OF DISOBEDIENCE. 



' And thy heaven that is over thy head shall be brass, and the earth that la 
under thee shall be iron."— Deuteronomy xxviii. 23. 



Appalling doom ! yet hearts there are 

Its fearful truth have found, 
Have known a heaven where sun nor star 

Its radiance sheds around; 

An earth of iron, whose barren breast 

Seem'd icy cold and dead. 
Whose sterile paths, by joy unblest, 

In endless mazes spread. 

They who have trod that hopeless path, 

Beneath that rayless sky. 
Have known the hour of righteous wrath 

These metaphors imply. 

These know how God's most holy will 

Can mar creation's face, 
And leave the disobedient, still, 

No pleasant resting-place. 

One only hope for such remains — 

Repent, return, and live ; 
He who no penitent disdains. 

New heavens, new earth can give. 



264 POEMS. 

Simple obedience shall restore 
Green fields and sunny skies; 

And hearkening to His voice bring more 
Than Eden to their eyes. 



SIGNS AND TOKENS. 

He who watcheth winds that blow, 
May too long neglect to sow; 
He who waits lest clouds should rain, 
Harvest never shall obtain. 

Signs and tokens false may prove; 
Trust thou in a Saviour's love. 
In his sacrifice for sin. 
And his Spirit's power within. 

Keep thou Z ion-ward thy face, 

Ask in faith the aid of grace, 

Use the strength which grace shall give, 

Die to self — in Christ to live. 

Faith in God, if such be thine, 
Shall be found thy safest sign, 
And obedience to His will 
Prove the best of tokens still. 



POEMS. 265 



THE IVY. 

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

Dost tliou not love, in the season of spring, 

To twine thee a flowery wreath, 
And to see the beautiful birch-tree fling 

Its shade on the grass beneath? 
Its glossy leaf and silvery stem, 
Oh dost thou not love to look on them? 

And dost thou not love when leaves are greenest, 

And summer has just begun. 
When in the silence of moonlight thou leanest 

Where glistening waters run. 
To see by that gentle and peaceful beam. 
The willow bend down to the sparkling stream? 

And oh ! in a lovely autumnal day. 
When leaves are changing before thee. 

Do not Nature's charms, as they slowly decay, 
Shed their own mild influence o'er thee? 

And hast thou not felt, as thou stood'st to gaze, 

The touching lesson such scene displays? 

It should be thus at an age like thine; 

And it has been thus with me, 
When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine, 

As they never more can be : 

23 



266 POEMS. 

Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot, 
Perhaps I see beauty where thou dost not. 

Hast thou seen in winter's stormiest day 

The trunk of a blighted oak, 
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay, 

Beneath time's resistless stroke. 
Round which a luxuriant Ivy had grown. 
And wi'eath'd it with verdure no longer its own ? 

Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then. 

As I, at thy years, might do, 
Pass'd carelessly by, nor turn'd again 

That scathed wreck to view : 
But now I can draw from that mouldering tree 
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me. 

smile not! nor think it a worthless thing, 
If it be with instruction fraught; 

That which will closest and longest cling, 
Is alone worth a serious thought! 

Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed 

Grace on the dying, and leaves not the dead? 

Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him 

Who giveth, upbraiding not. 
That his light in thy heart become not dim, 

And his love be unforgot; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee! 



POEMS. 267 



SILENT WORSHIP. 

Though glorious, God, must thy temple have been 

On the day of its first dedication, 
When the cherubim wings widely waving were seen 

On high o'er the ark's holy station ; 

When even the chosen of Levi, though skill'd 

To minister standing before Thee, 
Retired from the cloud which thy temple then fill'd, 

And thy glory made Israel adore Thee ; 

Though awful indeed was thy majesty then; 

Yet the worship thy gospel discloses. 
Less splendid in show to the vision of men, 

Surpasses the ritual of Moses. 

And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal'd ? 

But by Him unto whom it was given 
To enter the oracle where is reveal'd 

Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven. 

Who, having once entcr'd, hath shown us the way, 

Lord, how to worship before Thee ; 
Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day, 

But in spmt and truth to adore Thee. 



268 POEMS. 

This, this is the worship Messiah made known, 

When she of Samaria found Him 
By the patriarch's well sitting weary alone, 

With the stillness of noon-tide around him. 

" Woman, believe me, the hour is near. 

When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, 
Will neither be worshipp'd exclusively here, 

Nor yet at the altar of Salem. 

" For God is a Spirit ! and they who aright 
Would do the pure worship he loveth 

In the heart's holy temple, will seek with delight 
That spirit the Father approveth." 

And many that prophecy's truth can declare 
Whose bosoms have livingly known it ; 

Whom God has instructed to visit him there, 
And convinced that his mercy will own it. 

The temple that Solomon built to his name 

Exists but in name and in story : 
Extinguish'd long since is that altar's bright flame, 

And vanish'd each glimpse of its glory. 

But the Christian, made wise by a wisdom Divine, 
Though all human fabrics may falter, 

Still finds in his heart a fiir holier shrine, 

Where the fire burns unquench'd on the altar. 



POEMS. 269 



THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 

Thou should'st not to the grave descend 

Unmourn'd, imlionour'd, and unsung ; 
Could harp of mine record thine end, 

For thee that rude harp should be strung ; 
And plaintive notes as ever rung 

Should all its simple strings employ, 
Lamenting unto old and young 

The Bard who sung the Farmer's Boy. 

The Harvest Home's rejoicing cup 

Should pause, when that sad note was heard ; 
The JVidoio turn her Hourglass up, 

With tenderest feelings newly stirr'd; 
And many a pity-waken'd word. 

And sighs that speak when language fails, 
Should prove thy simple strains preferr'd 

To prouder poets' lofty tales. 

Circling the Old Oak Table round, 
Whose moral worth thy measure owns, 

Heroes and heroines yet are found 
Like Abner and the Widow Jones. 

23* 



270 POEMS. 

There Gilbert Meldrum's sterner tones 
In virtue's cause are bold and free, 

And ey'n the patient suflferer's moans 
In pain and sorrow plead for thee. 



Nor thus beneath the straw-roof 'd cot 

Alone should thoughts of thee pervade 
Hearts which confess thee unforgot 

On heathy hill, in grassy glade ; 
In many a spot by thee array'd 

With hues of thought, with foncy's gleam, 
Thy memory lives, — in Euston's shade, 

By Barnham Water's shadeless stream. 



And long may guileless hearts preserve 

Thy memory, and its tablets be ; 
While nature's healthy power shall nerve 

The arm of labour toiling free : 
While childhood's innocence and glee 

With green old age enjoyment share, 
Richards and Kates shall tell of thee, 

Walters and Janes thy name declare. 



How wise, how noble, was thy choice, 
To be the Bard of simple swains ; 

In all their pleasures to rejoice. 

And soothe with sympathy their pains ; 



POEMS. 271 

To sing with feeling in thy strains 

The simple subjects they discuss, 
And be, though free from classic chains, 

Our own more chaste Theocritus ! 



ALL IS VANITY. 

In childhood any toy 

For one short hour amuses; 

And all its store of joy 
With its new lustre loses. 

The boy keeps up the game 
Just as the child began it; 

For boyhood's joyous flame 
Needs novelty to fan it. 

The youth, when beauty's eye 

First wakes the pulse of pleasure, 

Thinks with a fruitless sigh 

That he has found his treasure. 

Existence further scan 

In all succeeding stages, 
View it in ripen'd man. 

In hoary-headed sages — 



272 POEMS. 

What pleasure can it give 
Unless it stoop to borrow, 

And lead us on to live 

On bliss to be — to-morrow? 

What can this world bestow 
That should enchain us to it? 

Or compensate the woe 

Wc bear who journey through it? 

man ! if to this earth 
Thy heart is wedded only, 

Each hope that comes with mirth 
Will leave thee twice as lonely : 

And when that hope is gone 
Thou shalt be all forsaken. 

For having leant upon 

A reed by each wind shaken. 



TO L- 



MiDNiQHT has stolen on mc — sound is none, 
Save when light tinkling cinders, one by one, 
Fall from my fire — or its low glittering blaze 
A faint and fitful noise at times betrays. 
Or distant baying of the watch-dog, caught 
At intervals. It is the hour of thought — 
Canst thou then juarvcl, now that thought is free, 
Memory should wake and fancy fly to thee ? 



POEMS. 273 

AUTUMN. 

WRITTEN IN THE GROUNDS OF MARTIN COLE, ESQ. 

When is the aspect which nature wears 

The loveliest and dearest ? Say is it in Spring, 

When its blossoms the apple-tree beauteously bears, 
And birds on each spray are beginning to sing ? 

Or is it in Summer's fervid pride. 

When the foliage is shady on every side, 

And tempts us at noon in the green-wood to hide, 

And list to the wild birds warbling ? — 

Lovely is nature in seasons like these 

But lovelier when Autumn's tints are spread 
On the landscape round, and the wind-swept trees 

Their leafy honours reluctantly shed : 
When the bright sun sheds a watery beam 
On the changing leaves and the glistening stream j 
Like smiles on a sorrowing cheek, that gleam 
When its woes and cares for a moment are fled. 

And such is the prospect which now is greeting 

My glance, as I tread this favourite walk ; 
As the frolicsome sunbeams are over it fleeting. 

And each flower nods on its rustling stalk ; 
And the bosom of Deben is darkening and lightening, 
When gales the crests of its billows are whitening. 
Or bursts of sunshine its billows are brightening. 
While the winds keep up their stormy talk. 



274 POEMS. 

Of the brightness and beauty of Summer and Spring 

There is little left but the roses that blow 
By this friendly wall. To its covert they cling, 

And eagerly smile in each sunbeam's glow ; 
But when the warm beam is a moment withdrawn, 
And the loud whistling breeze sweeps over the lawn, 
Their beauteous blossoms, so fair and forlorn, 

Seem to shrink from the wind which ruffles them so. 

Poor wind-tost tremblers ! some weeks gone by 
You were fanu'd by breezes gentler than these ; 

When you strctch'd your leaves to a summer sky, 
And open'd your buds to the hum of bees : 

But soon will the Winter be past, and you. 

When his winds are gone to the north, shall renew 

Your graceful apparel of glossy hue, 

And wave your blossoms in Summer's breeze. 

The autumnal blasts, which whirl while we listen ; 

The wan, sear leaf, like a floating toy ; 
The bright round drops of dew, which glisten 

On the grass at morn ; and the sunshine coy. 
Which comes and goes like a smile when woo'd ; 
The auburn meads, and the foamy flood. 
Each sight and sound, in a musing mood, 

Awaken sensations superior to joy. 



POEMS. 275 



A GRANDSIRE'S TALE. 



The tale I tell was told me loug ago ; 

Yet many a tale, since heard, has pass'd away, 
While this still wakens memory's fondest glow, 

And feelings fresh as those of yesterday : 

'T was told me by a man whose hairs were grey, 
Whose brow bore token of the lapse of years, 

Yet o'er his heart affection's gentle sway 
Maintain'd that lingering spell which age endears. 
And while he told his tale his eyes were dim with tears. 



But not with tears of sorrow ; — for the eye 

Is often wet with joy and gratitude ; 
And well his faltering voice, and tear, and sigh 

Declared a heart by thankfulness subdued : 

Brief feelings of regret might there intrude. 
Like clouds which shade awhile the moon's fair light; 

But meek submission soon her power renew'd, 
And patient smiles, by tears but made more bright, 
Confess'd that God's decree was wise, and good, and right. 



276 POEMS. 

It was a winter's evening — clear, but still ; 

Bright was the fire, and bright the silvery beam 
Of the fair moon shone on the window-sill 

And parlour-floor ; — the softly mingled gleam 

Of fire and moonlight suited well a theme 
Of pensive converse unallied to gloom ; 

Ours varied like the subjects of a dream, 
And turn'd at last upon the silent tomb, 
Earth's goal for hoary age and beauty's smiling bloom. 

We talk'd of life's last hour ; — the varied forms 
And features it assumes ; how some men axe 

As sets the sun when dark clouds threaten storms, 
And starless night ; others whose evening sky 
Resembles those which to the outward eye 

Seem full of promise ; — and with soften'd tone. 
At seasons check'd by no ungrateful sigh. 

The death of one sweet grand-child of his own 

Was by that hoary man most tenderly made known. 

She was, he said, a fair and lovely child. 

As ever parent could desire to sec, 
Or seeing, fondly love ; of manners mild, 

Aficctions gentle, even in her glee 

Her very mirth from levity was free ; 
But her more common mood of mind was one 

Thoughtful beyond her early age, for she 
In ten brief years her little course had run, — 
Many more brief have known, but brighter surely none. 



r o E iM s . 277 

Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad, 

Yet those who knew her better, best could tell 
How calmly happy and how meekly glad 

Her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell, 

Like to the waters of some crystal well. 
In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen ; 

Fancy might deem on her young spirit fell 
Glimpses of light more glorious and serene 
Thau that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien. 

But though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile 

Had sweetness in it passing that of mirth ; 
Loving and kind, her thoughts, words, deeds, the while 

Betray'd of childish sympathy no dearth : 

She loved the wild flowers scatter'd over earth. 
Bright insects sporting in the light of day. 

The blackbird trolling joyous music forth. 
The cuckoo shouting in the woods away; 
All these she loved as much as those who seem'd more gay. 

But more she loved the word, the smile, the look, 

Of those who rear'd her with religious care; 
With fearful joy she conn'd that holy book, 

At whose unfolded page full many a prayer, 

In which her weal immortal had its share, 
Recurr'd to memory ; for she had been train'd. 

Young as she was, her early cross to bear ; 
And taught to love with fervency unfeign'd 
The record of His life whose death salvation gaiu'd. 
24 



278 r o E M s . 

I dare not linger, like my ancient friend, 

On every charm and grace of this fair maid j 
For, in his narrative, the story's end 

Was long with fond prolixity delay'd ; 

Though fancy had too well its close portray'd 
Before I heard it. Who but might have guess'd 

That one so fit for heaven would early fade 
In this brief state of trouble and unrest? 
Yet only withor here to bloom in life more blest. 

My theme is one of joy, and not of grief; 

I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay, 
Nor stop to paint it slowly, leaf by leaf, 

Fading and sinking to its parent clay : 

She sank, as sinks the glorious orb of day, 
His radiance brightening at his journey's close ; 

Yet with that chastcn'd, soft, and gentle ray 
In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows, 
But on whose mellow'd light our eyes with joy repose. 

Her strength was failing, but it seem'd to sink 

So calmly, tenderly, it woke no fear ; 
'T was like a rippling wave on ocean's brink, 

Which breaks in dying nmsic on the ear. 

And placid beauty on the eye ; — no tear 
Except of quiet joy in hers was known ; 

Though some there were around her justly dear. 
Her love for whom in every look was shown, 
Yet more and more she sought and loved to be alone. 



POEMS. 279 

One summer mora they miss'd her ; — she had been 

As usual to the garden arbour brought, 
After their matin meal ; her placid mien 

Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought, 

Her voice, her smile, with cheerfulness was fraught, 
And she was left amid that peaceful scene 

A little space ; but when she there was sought, 
In her secluded oratory green, 
Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen. 

They found her in her chamber, by the bed 

Whence she had risen, and on the bed-side chair. 
Before her, was an open Bible spread ; 

Herself upon her knees : — with tender care 

They stole on her devotions, when the air 
Of her meek countenance the truth made known : 

The child had died — died in the act of prayer — 
And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan, 
To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown. 



280 POEMS 



SONNET. 

TO NATHAN DRAKE, ON THE TITLE OF HIS NEWLY 
ANNOUNCED WORK. 

" Mornings in Spring." — Oh ! bappy thou, indeed, 
Thus with the glow of sunset to combine 
Day's earlier brightness, and in life's decline 

To send thought, feeling, foncy back to feed 

In youth's fresh pastures, from the emerald mead 
To cull Spring flowers with Autumn fruits to twine ; 
And borrow from past harmonics benign 

Strains sweeter far than of the pastoral reed. 

Not such the lot of him who, ere his sun 

Have past its Summer solstice, feels the bloom 
Of June o'ershadow'd by December gloom ; 

Thankful if, when life's stormy race be run, 

The humble hope that his day's work is done, 
May cheer the shadowy entrance to the tomb. 



POEMS. 281 



'MOREOVER WHEN YE FAST, BE NOT, AS THE HYPOCRITES, OF 
A SAD COUNTENANCE; FOR THEY DISFIGURE THEIR FACES, 
THAT THEY MAY APPEAR UNTO MEN TO FAST. VERILY I SAY 
UNTO YOU, THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD.' —Matt. vi. 16. 



When thou a fast would'st keep 

Make not its homage cheap, 
By publishing its signs to every eye: 

But let it be between 

Thyself and the Unseen; 
So shall it gain acceptance from on high. 

God will no rival brook! 

Austere or mournful look, 
Meant human eye to catch, or heart to move, 

Seeking but man's applause, 

Grlory from God withdraws, — 
Treason His spirit sternly will reprove. 

From inward exercise, 

At seasons will arise 
Dark clouds, which cast their shadow on the brow ; 

Yet darker to impart, 

Shows a divided heart. 
Which makes the world a witness of its vow. 
24* 



282 POEMS. 

Nor think in fasts alone, 

The precept here made known, 
Instruction to the Christian's heart should teach; 

In alms, in prayer, in praise — 

A lesson it conveys, 
'T were wise to learn, and good to feel in each. 

Here we may plainly read, 

That e'en the holiest deed 
Which in the least the praise of man desires ; 

Howe'er by man esteem'd. 

Will not by God be decm'd 
That homage of the heart which he requires. 



ALDBOROUGH FROM THE TERRACE. 

Thy old Moot-hall is but a relique hoar ! 

Thy time-worn Church stands lonely on the hill ! 

And he who sojourns here when winds are shrill 
In winter — peradventure might deplore 
The poor old Borough, — Borough now no more ! 

Yet, on a summer day, 't is pleasant still, 

From this fair eminence to gaze at will 
Over the town below, and winding shore. 



POEMS. 283 



SONNET. 

TO A FRIEND NEVER YET SEEN, BUT CORRESPONDED 
WITH FOR ABOVE TWENTY YEARS.* 

Unknown to sight — for more than twenty years 
Have we, by written interchange of thought 
And feeling, been into communion brought 

Which friend to friend insensibly endears ! 

In various joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 
Befalling each ; and serious subjects, fraught 
With wider interest, we at times have sought 

To gladden this — yet look to brighter spheres ! 

We never yet have met — and never may 

Perchance, while pilgrims upon earth we fare ; 
Yet, as we seek each other's load to bear. 

Or lighten, and that law of love obey, 

May we not hope in heaven's eternal day 
To meet, and happier intercourse to share ? 

* Mrs. Sutton, to whom so many letters in this volume are ad- 
dressed. 



284 POEMS. 



SONNET. 



TO CHARLOTTE M- 



Thou art but in life's morning, and as yet 

The world looks witchingly ; its fniits and flowers 
Are fair and fragrant, and its beauteous bowers 

Seem haunts of happiness before thee set, 

All lovely, as a landscape freshly wet 

With dew, or bright with sunshine after showers, 
Where pleasure dwells, and Flora's magic powers 

Woo thee to pluck a peerless coronet. 

Thus be it ever : would'st thou have it so, 

Preserve thy present openness of heart ; 

Cherish the generous feelings that now start 
At base dissimulation, and that glow 

Of native love for ties which home endears > 

And thou wilt find the world no vale of tears. 

[1820.] 



r E M s . 285 



SONNET. 



TO THE REV. J. J. REVNOLDS, 



CURATE OF WOODBRIDGE. 



Dear friend, and Christian brother; if thy creed 

May not on every jjoiut agree with mine ; 

Yet may we worship at one common shrine, 
"While both alike we feel our urgent need 
Of the same Saviour; as a broken reed 

Count all — except his righteousness Divine; 

And equal honour reverently assign 
Unto that Spirit, who for both must plead ! 
Since in these grand essentials we agree, 

Oh what are modes of worship, forms of prayer, 

Or outward sacraments? I would not dare 
To doubt that such are helpful unto thee; 
Nor wilt thou fail in charity for me. 

Seeking within to know and feel them there ! 



286 POEMS. 



FALL OF AN OLD TREE 

IN PLAYFORD CHURCHYARD. 

Thou hast fallen ! and in thy fall 

A poet may deplore 
The loss of one memorial 

Which time cannot restore; 
Thy leafless boughs, and barkless stem, 
So long that green bank's diadem, 

Now greet my eyes no more : 
No longer canst thou to my heart 
Thy silent chronicles impart. 

Since thou that churchyard-gate beside 
First waved thy sapling bough, 

Beneath thee many a blooming bride 
Fresh from the nuptial vow 

Hath pass'd, with humble hopes elate ; 

And slowly borne through that low gate 
How many, sleeping now 

Beneath the turf's green flowery breast, 

Were carried to their dreamless rest! 



POEMS. 287 

Under thy shadow, full of glee, 

The village children play'd; 
And hoary age has seen in thee 

His own decline portray'd : 
With human joys, griefs, hopes, and fears, 
With humble smiles, and lowly tears, 

Thy memory is array'd; 
And for their sakes, though reft and riven, 
This record of thy fall is given. 



THE LAND WHICH NO MORTAL MAY KNOW. 



Though earth has full many a beautiful spot, 

As a poet or painter might show ; 
Yet more lovely and beautiful, holy and bright, 
To the hopes of the heart and the spirit's glad sight. 

Is the land that no mortal may know. 

There the crystalline stream, bursting forth from the throne, 

Flows on, and for ever will flow : 
Its waves, as they roll, are with melody rife, 
And its waters are sparkling with beauty and life. 

In the land which no mortal may know. 



288 POEMS. 

And there on its margin, with leaves ever green, 
With its fruits, healing sickness and woe, 

The fair tree of life, in its glory and pride, 

Is fed by that deep inexhaustible tide 
Of the land which no mortal may know. 

There too are the lost ! whom wo loved on this earth, 

With whose memories our bosoms yet glow; 
Their rcliques we gave to the place of the dead, 
But their glorified spirits before us have fled 
To the land which no mortal may know. 

Oh ! who but must pine, in this dark vale of tears. 

From its clouds and its shadows to go, 
To walk in the light of the glory above. 
And to share in the peace, and the joy, and the love 
Of the land whicli no mortal may know. 



FRAGMENT ON AUTUMN. 

The bright sun threw his glory all around; 

And then the balmy, mild, autumnal breeze 
Swept, with a musical and fitful sound, 

Among the fading foliage of the trees; 

And, now and then, a playful gust would seize 
Some falling leaf, and, like a living thing, 

Which flits about wherever it may please. 
It floated round in many an airy ring, 
Till on the dewy grass it fell with wearied wing. 



POEMS. 289 



ON A VIGNETTE OF WOODBRIDGE FROM 
THE WARREN HILL. 



My own beloved, adopted town ! 

Even this glimpse of thee, 
Whereon I've seen the sun go down 

So oft — suffices me. 

For more than forty chequer'd years 
Hast thou not been my home? 

Till all that most this life ejjdears 
Forbids a wish to roam. 

I came to thee a stranger youth, 

Unknowing and unknown ; 
And Friendship's solace, and Love's truth, 

In thee have been mine own. 

Loved for the living and the dead, 

No other home I crave ; 
Here would I live till life be fled. 
Here find a nameless grave. 
25 



290 POEMS 



INVOCATION TO AUTUMN. 



*' It was a day that sent into the heart 

A summer feeling I" — and, may memory, noW; 

Its own inspiring influence so impart 
Unto my fancy, as to teach me how 
To give it fitting utterance. Aid me, thou 

Most lovely season of the circling year ! 
Before my leaf of life, upon its bough, 

In the chill blasts of age shall rustle sere 

To frame a votive song to hours so justly dear 

Autumn ! soul-soothing season ! thou who spreadest 
Thy lavish feast for every living thing ; 

Around whose leaf-strew'd path, as on thou treadest, 
The year its dying odours loves to fling, 
Their last faint fragrance sweetly scattering ; 

Oh ! let thy influence, meek, majestic, holy. 
So consciously around my spirit cling, 

That its delight may be remote from folly, 

In sober thought combined with gentle melancholy. 



POEMS. 291 

If, in the morning of my life, to Spring 

I paid my homage with a heart elate ; 
And with each fluttering insect on the wing. 

Or small bird, singing to its happy mate, 

And Flora's festival, then held in state; — 
If joyous sympathy with such was mine ; 

Oh ! still allow me now to dedicate 
To thee a tenderer strain : that tone assign 
Unto my murmuring lyre, which nature gives to thine; — 

A tone of thrilling softness, as if eaught 

From light winds sweeping o'er a late reap'd field ; 
And, now and then, be with those breezes brought 

A murmur musical, of winds coneeal'd 

In coy recesses, by escape reveal' d : — 
And, ever and anon, still deeper tone 

Of Winter's gathering dirge, at distance peal'd 
By harps and hands unseen, and only known 
To some enthusiast's ear when worshipping alone. 



292 POEMS. 



STANZAS TO WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ. 

When first, like a child building houses with cards, 

I mimick'd the labours of loftier bards ; 

Though the fabrics I built felt each breath that came near, 

Thy smiles taught me hope, and thy praise banish'd fear. 

Thou didst not reprove with an Aristarch's pride ; 
Or unfeelingly chill, or uncandidly chide ; 
It was not in thy nature with scorn to regard 
The fresh-breathing hopes of an untutor'd bard. 

Thou knew'st, whether fame crown'd his efforts or not, 
That a love of the Muse might enliven his lot ; 
That poesy acts like a magical balm. 
Which in seasons of sorrow can silently calm. 

It might win him no wealth, yet its treasure would add 
To the store of his mind what would make the heart glad ; 
Would make the heart glad with a pleasure more pure 
And more lasting than all the world's wealth can procure. 

Then accept of my thanks ! they are justly thy due; 
And forgive me for seeking once more to renew 
The ties of a friendship with being begun. 
By the father once owu'd, and bequeath'd to the son. 



POEMS. 293 



ON THE ALIENATION OF FIUENDS 

IN THE DECLINE OP LIFE. 

'When I see leaves drop from tlieir trees in the beginning of autumne, just 
such, thinke I, is the friendship of the world." —"He is an happy man that 
hath a true friend at his need ; but he is more truly happy that hath no need 
of his friend." — Warwick's Spare Minutes. 

The flower that blooms beneath the ray 

Of summer's cloudless sky, 
May see its blossoms torn away, 

And yet not wholly die : 
The summer sunbeams still are warm ; 
It dreads not winter's distant storm; 

And heaven is bright on high : 
It spreads its leaves each breeze to greet ; — 
Beauty is gone, but life is sweet. 



It may not bloom again, — but still 
Its leaf is green and bright; 

Of evening's dew it drinks its fill. 
And smiles in morning's light : 

The bee may find no honey there; 

But round its foliage, fresh and fair, 
And lovely to the sight. 

The buttei-fly on beauteous wing 

Will hover, and for shelter cling. 

25* 



294 POEMS. 

Not so the flower which autumn's smile, 

Instead of summer's blaze, 
Seduces, by its specious wile, 

To bloom in later days : 
Scarce hath its opening blossom spread, 
When all that charm'd it forth has fled; 

It droops — and then decays! 
Blasted in birth, its blight complete, 
And winter's snow its winding-sheet. 

How could it hope, the beam, which nm-sed 

Its bud, would bless its bloom? 
The languid rays which warm'd the first. 

But mock'd the latter's doom : 
Instead of genial shower and breeze. 
Come rains that chill, and winds that freeze; 

Instead of glory — gloom. 
How could it then but loathe to live, 
When life had nothing left to give? 

Thus fares it w^ith the human mind, 
Which Heaven has seem'd to bless 

With a capacity to find 

In friendship — happiness : — 

Its earliest and its brightest years 

Predict no pangs, forebode no fears; 
No doubts awake distress : 

Within it finds a cloudless sun, 

Without, a friend in every one. 



POEMS. 295 

How soon ere youth itself be flown, 

It learns that friends are few; 
Yet fondly fancies still its own 

Unchangeable, and true ! 
The spell is broken; and the breast 
On which its hopes had loved to rest, 

Is proved but human too; 
And Disappointment's chilling blight 
Strikes its first blossom of delight. 

But if that blow be struck when life 

Is young, and hopes are high. 
Passion will yet maintain the strife, 

Though pain extort the sigh: 
The heart, though wounded, still can beat 
With something of its earlier heat, 

And feels too young to die; 
It may not with first rapture thrill. 
But better feelings haunt it still. 

Not so, if in life's after hours. 

The autumn of our day, 
While yet we feel our mental powers 

Unconscious of decay; — 
If then confiding in the truth 
Of love that looks as fresh as youth. 

We see it fall away, — 
It brings a desolating grief. 
That withers more than Jlower or leaf! 

[1818.] 



296 POEMS. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

But yet, however cheerless seem 

Such sufferer's lonely state, 
There is a liglit whose cheering beam 

Its gloom can dissipate : 
It comes with healing on its wings, 
And heavenly radiance round it flings. 

It rises on the darkcu'd mind, 

In lustre brighter far 
Than that to outward orb assign'd 

Of sun, or moon, or star; 
And matchless is its mild control 
Over the desolate in soul. 

There is A Friend more tender, true, 

Than brother e'er can be; 
Who, when all others bid adieu. 

Will still abide by thee; 
Who, be their pathway bright or dim. 
Deserts not those that turn to IIim. 

The heart by Him sustain'd, though deep 

Its anguish, still can bear; 
The soul He condescends to keep, 

Shall never know despair: 



POEMS. 297 

In nature's weakness, sorrow's night, 
God is its strength, its joy, and light. 

He is the Friend, who changeth not 

In sickness or in health, 
Whether on earth our transient lot 

Be poverty or wealth; 
In joy or grief, contempt or fame. 
To all who seek Him still the same. 

Of human hearts He holds the key : 

Is friendship meet for ours? 
Oh ! be assured that none but He 

Unlocks its purest powers : 
He can recall the lost, the dead, 
Or give us nobler in their stead. 

Of earthly friends — who finds them true, 

May boast a happy lot; 
But happier still, life's journey through. 

Is he who needs them not : 
A heavenly Friend — to know we need. 
To feel we have — is bliss indeed. 

[1823.] 



298 POEMS. 



SELBORNE 



That quiet vale I it greets my vision now, 
As when we saw it, one autumnal day, 
A cloudless sun brightening each feathery spray 

Of woods that clothed the Hanger to its brow : 

Woods, whose luxuriance hardly might allow 
A peep at that small hamlet, as it lay, 
Bosom'd in orchard plots and gardens gay, 

With here and there a field, perchance, to plough. 

Delightful valley ! still I own thy claim ; 
As when I gave thee one last lingering look. 
And felt thou wast indeed a fitting nook 

For him to dwell in, whose undying name 

Has unto thee bequeath'd its humble fame, 
Pure and imperishable, — like his book ! 



POEMS. 299 



DUNWICH. 

" Nature has left these objects to decay, 
That what we are, and have been, may be known." 

In Britain's earlier annals thou wert set 

Among the cities of our sea-girt isle : 
Of what thou wert — some tokens linger yet 

In yonder ruins ; and this roofless pile, 
Whose walls are worshipless, whose tower — a mark, 
Left but to guide the seaman's wandering bark ! 

Yet where those ruins grey are seatter'd round, 
The din of commerce fiU'd the echoing air; 

From these now crumbling walls arose the sound 
Of hallow' d music, and the voice of prayer; 

And this was unto some, whose names have ceased, 

The wall'd and gated city of the east ! * 

* To those who may think my epithet of " The wall'd and gated 
city of the east," somewhat hyperbolical as applied to Dunwich, I 
must submit an extract from Gardner's History of Dunwich, as con- 
taining at least traditional authority. 

" The oldest inhabitants of this neighbourhood report, that Dun- 
wich (in ancient time) was a city surrounded with a stone wall, and 
brazen gates ; had fifty-two churches, chapels, religious houses, and 
hospitals, a king's palace, a bishop's seat, a mayor's mansion, and 
a mint." He further states his endeavours — "to preserve the fame 
of that renowned city, now almost swallowed up by the sea, from 



300 POEMS. 

Thus time, and circumstance, and change, betray 
The transient tenure of the worldly wise ! 

Thus " Trade's proud empu-e hastes to swift decay," 
And leaves no splendid wreck for fame to prize. 

While Natui'e her magnificence retains, 

And from the contrast added glory gains. 

Still in its billowy boundlessness outspread, 
Yon mighty deep smiles to the orb of day, 

Whose brightness o'er this shatter'd pile is shed 
In quiet beauty. — Nature's ancient sway 

Is audible in winds that whisper round. 

The soaring sky-lark's song, the breaker's hollow sound. 



sinking into oblivion, by collecting such occurrences dependent 
thereon, as may perpetuate the memorial thereof to posterity." — 
But after all, tradition has done more for the past glories of Dun- 
wich than history, " Time's slavisli scribe," has ever condescended 
to do. 

There is yet to be found growing on the hills and heaths about 
Dunwich a small and very sweet rose, peculiar, I believe, to the 
place ; and said to have been brought tliither by the monks. Tliere 
is also a tune called " Dunwich Roses" known in the coimty. 



P O K M s . 301 



THE SKY-LARK. 

Bird of the free and fearless wing ! 

Up, up, and greet the sun's first ray. 
Until the spacious welkin ring 

With thy enlivening matin lay : 
I love to track thy heavenward way 

Till thou art lost to aching sight, 
And hear thy numbers, blithe and gay, 

Which set to music morning's light. 

Songster of sky and cloud ! to thee 

Hath Heaven a joyous lot assign'd ; 
And thou, to hear those notes of glee, 

Would'st seem therein thy bliss to find : 
Thou art the first to leave behind 

At day's return this lower earth, 
And soaring as on wings of wind. 

To spring where light and life have birth. 

Bird of the sweet and taintless hour, 
When dew-drops spangle o'er the lea, 

Ere yet upon the bending flower 
Has lit the busy humming-bee ; — 

26 



302 POEMS. 

Pure as all nature is to thee — 
Thou, ■with an instinct half divine, 

Wingest thy fearless flight so free 

Up toward a yet more glorious shrine. 

Bird of the morn ! from thee might man, 

Creation's lord, a lesson take : 
If thou, whose instinct ill may scan 

The glories that around thee break, 
Thus bidd'st a sleeping world awake 

To joy and praise; — oh I how much more 
Should mind immortal, earth forsake, 

And man look upward to adore ! 

Bird of the happy, heaven-ward song! 

Could but the poet act thy part, 
His soul, up-borne on wings as strong 

As thought can give, from earth might start, 
And with a far diviner art 

Than ever genius can supply. 
As thou the ear, might glad the heart, 

And scatter music from the sky. 



POEMS. 303 



TO A VERY YOUNa HOUSEWIFE, 

To write a book of household song, 

Without one verse to thee, 
Whom I have known and loved so long. 

Were all unworthy me. 

Have I not seen thy needle plied 

With as much ready glee, 
As if it were thy greatest pride 

A sempstress famed to be ! 

Have I not ate pies, pudding, tarts, 
And bread, thy hands had kneaded, 

All excellent — as if those arts 
Were all that thou hadst heeded? 

Have I not seen thy cheerful smile, 
And heard thy voice as gay, 

As if such household cares, the while^ 
To thee were sport and play? 

Yet can thy pencil copy well 
Landscape, or flower, or face; 

And thou canst waken music's spell 
With simple, natural grace. 



304 POEMS. 

Thus variously to play thy part, 
Before thy teens are spent, 

Honours far more thy head and heart, 
Than mere accomplishment! 

So wear the wreath thou well hast won; 

And be it understood 
I frame it not in idle fun 

For girlish womanhood. 

But in it may a lesson lurk, 
Worth teaching now-a-days; 

That girls may do all household work, 
Nor lose a poet's praise ! 



All round was calm and still ; the noon of night 
Was fast approaching : up the unclouded sky 

The lovely moon pursued her path of light, 
And shed her silvery splendour far and nigh : 
No sound save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh 

Fell on the ear ; and that so softly blew 
It scarcely stirr'd in passing lightly by 

The acacia's airy foliage ; faintly too 

It kiss'd the jasmine stars that at my window grew. 



POEMS. 305 

I turn'd me to past hours, remember'd yet, 
When we together walk'd the ocean shore; 

What time the sun in hues of glory set, 

What time the waves obey'd the winds no more, 
And musie broke where thunder burst before : 

I thought of moments when we turn'd the page 
Of Scotland's shepherd Bard, and linger'd o'er 

His simple pictures of an earlier age, 

Kilmeny's heavenly trance, the Abbot's pilgrimage. 



Thy path, like most by mortal trod. 

Will have its thorns and flowers. 
Its stony steps, its velvet sod. 

Its sunshine and its showers. 

Through smooth and rough, o'er flower and thorn, 

Beneath whatever sky, 
Still bear thee as a being born 

For immortality ! 

And be thy choicest treasure stored 

Where Faith may hold the key; 
For "where our treasure is" our Lord 

Hath said — "The heart shall be." 
26* 



306 POEMS. 



JOHN EVELYN. 

A TRUE philosopher ! well taught to scan 
The works of nature, those of art to prize; 
The latter cordially to patronize, 

But the first, their Author, and their plan. 

Giving that homage of far ampler span 
Awarded by the good, the great, the wise : 
A hearty lover of old household ties; 

And, to crown all, a Christian gentleman ! 
Such wert thou, Evelyn, in a busy age 

Of restless change, to dissipation prone ; 

And, at thy death, upon thy coffin-stone. 
Hast left this record, worthy many a page, 
That "all not honest," on this mortal stage, 

"Is vain ! and nothing wise save piety alone ! " 



Evylin is buried at Wotton, under a tomb of freestone, shaped 
like a coffin ; with an inscription thereon, by his own direction, stat- 
ing tliat, " Living in an age of extraordinary events and revohilions, 
he had learned from thence this truth, which he desired might be 
thus communicated to posterity ; " That all is vanity which is not 

HONEST I AND THAT THERE IS NO SOLID WISDOM BUT IN REAL PIETY I" 



1' O E M s . 307 



FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY. 

Still abide the heaven-born three, 
Faith, and Hope, and Charity ! 
Faith — to point out our heavenly goal, 
Hope — an anchor to the soul : 
Faith and Hope must pass away; 
Charity endure for aye ! 

Hope must in possession die; 
Faith — in blissful certainty : 
These to gladden each were given; 
Love, or Charity — for heaven! 
For, in brighter realms above, 
Charity survives — as Love. 

Love to Him, the great I AM ! 
Love to Him, the atoning Lamb ! 
Love unto the Holy Ghost ! 
Love to all the heavenly host ! 
Love to all the human race, 
Sanctified by saving grace ! 

In that pure and perfect love, 
Treasured up for heaven above, 
Christian ! may thy grateful heart 
Have its everlasting part; 
And when Faith and Hope are mute, 
Find in endless Love their fruit! 



308 POEMS. 



THE SHUNAMMITE WOMAN. 



' Behold, thou hast been careful for us with all this care; what is to be done for 
thee ? wouldst thou be spoken for to the king, or to the captain of the host? 
And she answereii, I dwell among mine own people."— 2 Kings iv. 13. 



Woman of pure aud lieaven-born fame ! 

Though Scripture's hallow'd page 
Hath made no mention of thy name, 

Thou liv'st from age to age ! 

Thy labour of unwearied love 
To soothe the prophet's lot, 

Prompted by kindness from above, 
Shall never be forgot. 

The chauiber built upon the wall, 

The bed whereon he lay, 
Stool, table, candlestick, — aud all 

These things endure for aye. 

If humble was each boon conferr'd, 

Their giver nameless too, 
The record many a heart hath stii'r'd 

Kind acta of love to do. 



POEMS. 309 

And llms in human hearts to dwell, 

A pure, undying flame, 
Is a more glorious chronicle, 

Than most that boast a name. 



For ne'er was brighter lustre thrown 

On path by woman trod, 
Than HERS, who divelt among her own — 

And CARED roR those of God ! 



THE DEPARTED. 

Much as we prize the active worth 

Of those who, day by day. 
Tread with us on this toilsome earth 

Its devious, thorny way; 
A charm more hallow'd and profound, 

By purer feelings fed, 
Imagination casts around 

The memory of the dead ! 

They form the living links, which bind 

Our spirits to that state 
Of being — pangless, pure, refined. 

For which in faith we wait. 



310 POEMS. 

By thoin, through holy hope and love, 

We feel in hours serene 
Connected with a ^Yorld above, 

Immortal and unseen ! 



"The dead arc like the stars by day, 

Withdi-awn from mortal eye;" 
Yet holding unperceived their way 

In heaven's unclouded sky. 
The mists of earth to us may mar 

The splendour of their light; 
But they, beyond sun, moon, or star, 

Shine on in glory bright. 



In this brief world of chance and change, 

Who has not felt and known 
How much may alter and estrange 

Hearts fondly dcem'd our own ? 
But those whom we lament awhile, 

"Not lost, but gone before," 
Doubt cannot darken, sin dcHlc, 

Or frailty alter more ! 



For death its sacred seal hath set 
On bright and by-gone hours ! 

And they, whose absence we regret, 
Seem more than ever ours ! 



POEMS. 311 

Ours, by the pledge of love and faith, 

And hope of heaven on high; 
A trust — triumphant over death 

In immortality. 



VERSES, 

SUGGESTED BY A VERY CURIOUS OLD ROOM AT THE 
"TANKARD," IPSWICH. 

Such were the rooms in which of yore 
Our ancestors were wont to dwell; 

And still of fashions known no more 
Even these lingering relics tell. 

The oaken wainscot richly graced 
With gay festoons of mimic flowers, 

Armorial bearings half effaced, 

All speak of proud and long past hours. 

The ceiling, quaintly carved and groin'd, 
"With pendent pediments reversed, 

A by-gone age recalls to mind. 

Whose glories song hath oft rehearsed. 



312 POEMS. 

And true, though trite, the moral taught 
Well worthy of the poet's rhyme, 

By all that can impress on thought 
The changes made by chance and time. 

These tell "a plain, unvarnish'd tale" 
Of wealth's decline and pride's decay, 

Nor less unto the mind unveil 

Those things which cannot pass away! 

And truths which no attention wake 
When poets sing, or parsons teach. 

Perchance may some impression make. 
When thus a public house may preach ! 



THE MOTHER OF DR. DODDRIDGE TEACEHNG HIM 
SCRIPTURE HISTORY FROM THE DUTCH TILES. 

Here he beholds the stories he has heard 
From holy lips, embodied to his view ; 

Faith surely follows sight, for God's own word, 
And a fond mother'.^!, tell him all is true '. 

Here he beholds his blessed Saviour bear 

The cross — there crucified ! — his eyes are dim 

With childhood's tears — his silent thought is prayer, 
As her voice whispers, " It was all for him." 



POEMS. 313 



Could I but fly to that calm, peaceful shore, 
Where shades of the bless'd suffer anguish no more, 

There should I sorrow not, 

Mis'ry and grief forgot, 

Rapture and joy my lot, 
Unfelt before ! 

Dearest of woman-kind, when I review 

All thy fond, plighted vows, faithful and true. 

Fain would my spirit fly 

To the bright realms on high 

And, in thy destiny, 
Triumph anew ! 

Ah ! my fond heart, all thy wishes are vain. 

Thy transports are vanish'd; thy griefs must remain: 

Memory ! torment no more, 

Fancy ! thy reign is o'er ! 

Canst thou to me restore 
Pleasure again? 

Silence, my Muse ! nor thus idly deplore 
Her whom no sorrow of thine can restore ! 

Nobly endure thy pain, 

Sighs and tears both are vain. 

Cease then thy mournful strain, 

Sorrow no more ! 

[1811.] 

27 



314 POEMS, 



TO A FRIEND. 

I OWN I should rejoice to share 

What poorest peasants do; 
To breathe heaven's heart-reviving air 

Under its vault of blue; 
To see great Nature's soul awake 

At morn in flower and tree; 
And childhood's early joys partake 

Amid the fields with thee. 

Yet more and more 'twould soothe my soul 

With thee, my friend, to stray 
Where ocean's murmuring billows roll 

In some secluded bay : 
The silent cliffs, the speaking main, 

The breezes blowing free. 
These could not look, speak, breathe in vain; 

Still less when shared with thee. 

But though such luxuries as these 

Remain almost unknown. 
We from our scanty store may seize 

Some pleasures of our own; 
And what could fortune bring of bliss, 

Of purer bliss to me. 
Than when she gave me only this — 

To find a friend in thee. 



POEMS. 315 



HYMN FOR A SUNDAY SCHOOL. 

Thou ! to whom the grateful song 
Of prayer and praise is due, 

Hear, we entreat, our childish throng. 
And grant Thy blessing too. 

Ou those who from Thy holy word 

Precepts divine instil. 
And teach us how to love Thee, Lord, 

And do thy holy will; 

On such, Lord ! Thy mercies shed, 
Who, in this world of woe. 

Like fountains with fresh waters fed, 
Bear blessings as they flow. 

May we, beside them planted, bow 
To Thee, the source of love ! 

And drawing nurture from below, 
Breathe sunshine from above. 

Then shall we, while on earth we live, 

To thine a comfort be; 
And wither,' but through death to live 

An endless life with Thee ! 



316 POEMS 



RIVER SCENE. 

COME and stand with me upon this ridge 
That overlooks the sweet secluded vale ; 

Before us is a little rustic bridge, 

A simple plank ; and by its side a rail, 
On either hand to guide the footsteps frail 

Of first and second childhood; while below, 
The murmuring brooklet tells its babbling tale. 

Like a sweet under-song, which in its flow 

It chanteth to the flowers that on its margin grow. 

For many a flower does blossom there to bless 
With beauty, and with fragrance to imbue 

The borders — strawberry of the wilderness. 
The starlike daisy, violet deeply blue. 
And cowslip, in whose cup the morning dew 

Glistens unspent till noontide's languid hour; 
And, last of all, and fairest to the \ie\r, 

The lily of the vale, whose virgin flower 

Trembles at every breeze within its leafy bower. 



POEMS. 317 



THE ABBOT TURNED ANCHORITE. 



' John Greene, relinquishing his Abbacie by choice, was consecrated an Anchorite 
of the chapel of St. Mary,, in the old monastery, near the sea." — Old 
Chronicle. On the shore near Leiston Abbey there is a little monastic ruin, 
which the poet may perhaps be allowed to fancy this abbot's retreat. 



A MOST impressive change it must, 
Methinks, to such an one have been, 

To abdicate the abbot's trust, 
And seek this solitary scene; 

Resigning all the ample swaj 

Of yon fair abbey's outstretch'd lands 

For this small cell, this silent bay. 
And barren beach of drifted sands. 

0, did he feel how little all 

Religion's outward pomp and power, 

The soul from earth can disenthral, 
And fit it for its parting hour? 

And having thus been taught to trace 

Snares in the path his feet had trod, 
Sought he this solitary place. 
Here to "prepare to meet his God?" 
27* 



318 POEMS. 



FROM A POEM ADDRESSED TO SHELLEY. 



There are, whose soaring spirits spurn 



At humble lore, and, still insatiate, turn 
From ■wholesome fountains to forbidden springs ; 

Whence having proudly quaff 'd, their bosoms bum 
With visions of unutterable things. 
Which restless Fancy's spell in shadowy glory brings. 

Delicious the delirious bliss, while new ; 

Unreal phantoms of wise, good, and fair, 
Hover around, in every vivid hue 

Of glowing beauty J these dissolve in air. 

And leave the baiTcn spirit bleak and bare 
As Alpine summits : it remains to try 

The hopeless task (of which themselves despair) 
Of bringing back those feelings, now gone by. 
By making their own dreams the code of all society. 

" All fear, none aid them, and few comprehend ; " 
And then comes disappointment, and the blight 

Of hopes, that might have bless'd mankind, l)ut end 
In stoic apathy, or starless night : 
And thus hath many a spirit, pure and bright, 

Lost that effulgent and ethereal ray, 

Which, had religion uourish'd it, still might 

Have shone on, peerless, to that perfect day, 

When death's veil shall be rent, and darkness dash'd away. 



POEMS. 319 

Ere it shall prove too late, thy steps retrace , 

The heights thy Muse has scaled can never be 
Her loveliest or her safest dwelling-place. 

In the deep valley of humility, 

The river of immortal life flows free 
For thee — for all. Oh ! taste its limpid wave. 

As it rolls murmuring by, and thou shalt see 
Nothing in death the Christian dares not brave, 
Whom faith in God has given a world beyond the grave ! 



AUTUMN MUSINGS. 

Summer leaves are fading, 
Sei'e ones flitting by; 

Frequent clouds are shading 
Heaven's o'er-archiug sky. 

Gusty winds are blowing 

Through the shortening day; 

Evenings longer growing, 
Winter's on his way. 

My Spring too is over, 
And my Summer past; 

Daily I discover 
Life more overcast. 



320 POEMS. 



But not pain nor weakness 
Can the soul enthral, 

Which, in faith and meekness. 
Looks to God through all. 



THE SEA. 

Ocean, once more upon thy breast 

Delightedly I gaze; 
Dearer in life's decline confest 

Than in our earlier days. 

When health and strength begin to fail, 

And spirits are dcprcst. 
Finding less " pleasure in the tale, 

Less smartness in the jest;" 

'Tis then, when fades full many a flower 

And life draws near the lees. 
We find how much has lost its power 

E'en momently to please. 

But still to every grander phase 

Of Nature we return, 
And fiud in our declining days 

Yet more to love and learn. 



POEMS. 321 

And what can Nature's self supply, 

From all her varied store, 
That may with thee, old Ocean, vie, 

To soothe, or teach us, more. 

Whether our mood be gay or grave. 

Our spirits high or low, 
There's music in thy dashing wave, 

Or in thy rippling flow. 

Earth is too prone to chance and change, 

Although her face be fair : 
We find, wherever we may range, 

How much is alter'd there. 

But thou in sunshine or in storm, 

In grandeur or in grace. 
Retain' st thine old primeval form, 

Thine old familiar face. 

Beneath the ovei*-arching sky, 

And sun, and moon, and star, 
Thy beauty and thy majesty 

Man hath no power to mar. 

Even as first the Almighty plann'd 

Where thy domain should be. 
Parted thy waters from dry land 

And named their concourse Sea ; 



322 POEMS. 

E'en so, from that creative hour, 
With freedom still unquell'd, 

In glory, majesty, and power, 
Hast thou dominion held. 

Yet, endless as may seem thy reign, 
And mighty as thou art. 

Thy sceptre thou shalt not retain. 
It must from thee depart : 

For prophecy foretells a day 
When thou mjist cease to be : 

When heaven and earth shall pass away, 
"There shall be no more sea." 



TO A PIOUS SLAVE-OWNER. 

Would' ST thou before the altar place thy gift, 
Thou who canst hold thy fellow-creature slave, 

First from his neck the yoke of bondage lift. 
And then of God and him forgiveness crave. 

Till this be done, the word of holy writ 

The folly of the offering implies, 
Oh ! read, mark, learn, and inly ponder it, 

" I will have mercy, and not sacrifice ! " 



POEMS. 323 



WHIGS AND TORIES. 

Susan, in friendship's social hour, 
Perchance for want of better themes, 

We 've scann'd the deeds of those in power. 
And argued on their various schemes ; 

Of Whigs and Tories, ins and outs, 

Of this and tha-t administration, 
We 've had our fears, our hopes, our doubts. 

To which the state might owe salvation. 

Nor did our converse lack the zest 
Which difference of opinion gives ; 

A true-blue Tory thou confest ; 

And I as staunch a Whig as lives. 

When I to censure Pitt have dared 
In sober truth, or playful mirth. 

How zealously hast thou declared 
His matchless eloquence and worth ! 

By me the statesman's fame and power 

Unheeded shone, though bright their blaze: 

But I must o \!i at such an hour 
I always envied him thy praise. 

And though I fear I still must be 

A Whig, and in the name must glory ; 

So warm my friendship that, for thee, 
I would, but cannot be, a Tory. 



324 POEMS 



THE DESERTED NEST. 

'TwAS but a wither'd, worthless heap 
Of dirt, and moss, and hair; 

Why then should Thought and Fancy keep 
A busy vigil there? 

Yet for some moments as I stood, 

And on it look'd alone, 
I could but think in musing mood. 

Where are its inmates gone? — 

Perhaps beneath some sunnier sky 

They joyous sing and soar; 
Perhaps in sad captivity 

Eternally deplore — 

And then, Imagination stirr'd 

Down to its hidden spring, 
Far, far beyond both nest and bird, 

Thought spread her airy wiug. 

When from our tenements of clay, 
Where briefly they arc shrined, 

Thought, Fancy, Feeling pass away — 
Where flies the deathless Mind? 



POEMS. 325 



Either, from sin redeem'd, it soars 

On angel wing above, 
And there its gratitude outpours 

In praise and joy and love; 

Or, exiled from the eternal source 
Whence such alone can flow, 

It breathes in accents of remorse 
Unutterable woe. 



TRIPLETS, 

FOR TRUTH'S SAKE. 

Let sceptics doubt, philosophers deride 

The Christian's privilege, '' an inward guide ;" 

" Wisdom is of her children justified ! " 

Let such as know not what that boon implies, 
G-od's blessed book above his spirit prize ; 
No stream can higher than its fountain rise ! 

Let them whose spirits types and shadows crave, 

For baptism trust the elemental wave ; 

" One Lord, one faith, one baptism" still must save ! 

28 



326 p o E >j s . 

Let those who, like the Jews, require a sign, 
Partake, unblamed, of outward bread and wine : 
Thou. Lord, within — canst make the substance mine. 

Believing, in Thy glorious gospel day, 
Types, emblems, shadows, all must pass away ; 
In such I dare not place my trust and stay. 

Abba ! on Thee with child-like trust I call ; 
In self-abasement at thy footstool fall ; 
Asking to know but Thee, and find Thee all ! 



TO LITTLE SUSAN. 

The lark, as he sings and soars above, 
Remembers his humble home with love, 
And when he has finish'd his joyful strain, 
Gladly sinks down to his nest again. 

And thus, dear girl, though thy flight has been 
O'er many a gayer and brighter scene; 
E'en so must thy grateful heart incline 
To a home so happy and loved as thine ! 

Fair truant ! thy song, for this many a day, 

Has been " Over the hills and far away," 

And now unto us, who seldom roam, 

Thou shaltsing the glad measure of '' Home, sweet home." 



POEMS. 327 



The butterfly, which sports on gaudy wing; 

The brawling brooklet, lost in foam and spray, 

As it goes dancing on its idle way ; 
The sun-flower, in broad daylight glistening; 
Are types of her who in the festive ring 

Lives but to bask in fashion's vain display. 

And glittering through her bright but useless day, 
"Flaunts, and goes down, a disregarded thing!" 
Thy emblem, Lucy, is the busy bee. 

Whose industry for future hours provides ; 

The gentle streamlet, gladding as it glides 
Unseen along; the flower which gives the lea 
Fragrance and loveliness, are types of thee. 

And of the active worth thy modest merit hides. 



328 POEMS 



A DREAM 



A DREAM came lately in the hours 

To nightly slumber due; 
It pictured forth no fairy bowers 

To Fancy's raptured view; 
It had not much of marvels strange, 
Nor aught of wild and frequent change 

But all seem'd real — ay! as much, 

As now the page I trace 
Is palpable to sight and touch; 

Then how could doubt have place ? 
Yet was I not from doubt exempt, 
But ask'd myself if still I dreamt. 

I felt I did; but spite of this, 
Ev'n thus in dreams to meet, 

Had much, too much of dearest bliss, 
Though not enough to cheat : 

I knew the vision soon Avould fade. 

And yet I bless'd it while it stay'd. 



POEMS. 329 



But oh, thy look ! It was not one 
That earthly features wear; 

Nor was it aught to fear or shun, 
As fancied spectres are : 

'Twas gentle, pure, and passionless, 

Yet full of heavenly tenderness. 



One thing was strange. — It seem'd to me 

We wore not long alone; 
But many more were circling thee. 

Whom thou on earth hadst known; 
Who seem'd as greeting thy return 
From some unknown, remote sojourn. 



To them thou wast as others be 
Whom on this earth we love ; 

I marveli'd much they could not see 
Thou earnest from above; 

And often to myself I said, 

" How can they thus approach the dead ? " 



But though all these, with fondness warm. 
Said " Welcome ! " o'er and o'er. 

Still that expressive shade, or form, 
Was silent, as before ! 

And yet its stillness never brought 

To them one hesitating thought. 

28* 



330 POEMS. 

/ only knew thee as thou loert, 

A being not of earth ! 
Yet had I not the power to exert 

My voice to check their mirth; 
For blameless mirth was theirs, to see, 
Once more a friend beloved like thee. 

And so apart from all I stood, 

Till tears, though not of grief. 
Afforded, to that speechless mood, 

A soothing, calm relief: 
And, happier than if speech were free, 
I stood, and watch'd thee silently ! 

I watch'd thee silently, and while 

I mused on days gone by, 
Thou gav'st me one celestial smile. 

One look that cannot die. 
It was a moment worthy years ! 
I woke, and found myself in teai*s.* 

* " I never could cry — nor do I remember, since childhood, to 
have shed a tear, save once in a dream about Lucy's angel mother; 
when sleep had won from mc what the waking reality of her loss 
never could." — From a letter. 



POEMS. 331 



IN MEMORY OF F. H. 



And thou indeed art dead ! 
So living, loving, one short week ago ; 

And bitter tears are shed 
For one whose smiles were wont to banish woe. 

While I, who some time past 
Thy birthday sang with mingled hope and fear, 

Now sing of thee my last, 
A dirge of lamentation o'er thy bier. 

Then feebly burn'd the flame 
Of life in thee j for sickness dimm'd thy brow ; 

And / might seem to claim 
A longer lease of this poor life than thou. 

But thou wast younger far: 
The storm swept over thee ; the cloud pass'd by ; 

A re-appearing star, 
Thy gentle lustre gladden'd heart and eye. 



332 POEMS. 

Now, in full womanhood, 
Thou to the unknown spirit-land art gone ; 

While I in saddest mood 
Am still left hoping, fearing, lingering on. 

Thus scathed and -blighted stems. 
Leafless and fruitless, cumber still the ground ; 

While flowers, that shone like gems 
Of living loveliness, no more are found. 

Not that these flowers die: 
Transplanted to a happier soil, they grow 

Beneath a cloudless sky. 
And there with everlasting fragrance blow. 



To be remcmber'd when the face 

Of Nature is most fair; 
Or when some touch of heavenly grace 

Uplifts the soul in prayer! 

These arc the richest, best reward 

A poet's heart can own, 
And happy is the humblest bard 

Who writes for these alone. 



POEMS. 333 



TO THE DEBEN 



No stately villas, on thy side, 
May be reflected in thy tide ; 
No lawn-like parks, outstretching round, 
The willing loiterer's footsteps bound 
By woods, that cast their leafy shade, 
Or deer that start across the glade; 
No ruin'd abbey, grey with years, 
Upon thy marge its pile uproars; 
Nor crumbling castle, valour's hold, 
Recalls the feudal days of old. 



Nor dost thou need that such should be, 
To make thee, Deben, dear to me 
Thou hast thy own befitting charms. 
Of quiet heath and fertile farms. 
With here and there a copse to fling 
Its welcome shade, where wild birds sing; 
Thy meads, for flocks and herds to graze; 
Thy quays and docks, where seamen raise 
Their anchor, and unfurl their sail 
To woo and win the favouring gale. 



334 POEMS. 

And, iibovc all, for me thou Last 
Endearing memories of the past ! 
Thy winding banks, with grass o'ergrown, 
By me these forty years well known, 
Where, eve or morn, 'tis sweet to rove, 
Have oft been trod by those I love; 
By those who, through life's by-gone hours. 
Have strew'd its thorny path with flowers, 
And by their influence made thy stream 
A grateful poet's favourite theme. 



EPITAPH, 

ON A YOUNG SOLDIER WHO DIED IN INDIA. 

What though the youth who silent rests below, 
Has prematurely met his earthly doom 

What though his generous breast no more shall glow 
With love, nor friendship call the wand'rer home : 

Yet the same hour which summons from their graves 
His mould'ring kindred on Britannia's .shore, 

And the same trunip, resounding o'er the waves, 
Shall bid the Indian dead to sleep no more. 



POEMS. 335 



Oh had I the wings of a dove ! 

Far, far from the world would I fly, 
And seek a new home for my love 

In those happier regions on high. 

I am weary of this lower earth, 

Its turmoils, its hopes, and its fears; 

The mourning that follows its mirth, 
Its mirth that is sadder than tears! 

But there is a world yet to come, 
By God's presence eternally blest, 

Where the good shall inherit a home, 
And the weary for ever shall rest. 

Oh had I the wings of the dove ! 

Far, far from the world would I fly. 
And find a new home for my love 

In those happier regions on high! 



336 POEMS 



"TOO LATE!" 

Bitter the anguish with these two words blended, 
For those contemplating their hopeless lot, 

Who find life's summer past, — its harvest ended, — 
And winter nigh ! while they are gathered not. 

Yet do thou, Lord, by thy supreme conviction, 
Give them to feel that, though their sins are great, 

Thy love and mercy own not our restriction. 
But that, with Thee, it never is too late. 



ON A GARDEN. 

Enough of Nature's wealth is there 

Lost Eden to recall: 
Enough of human toil and care 

To tell man's hapless fall. 

And Fancy, being once awake, 
Recalls one memory more, 

Of Ilini who suflfer'd for our sake. 
Lost Eden to restore. 



POEMS. 337 



SONNET TO &. D. L. 



My much-loved friend ! whose labours oft dispense, 

To the worn sufferer, health's returning bloom ; 
Skilful, yet modest; kind, without pretence; 

Whose cordial sympathy has chcer'd the gloom 
Of hours more dark than Winter's self can show : 

While lengthen 'd evenings linger out the year, 
May we, beside thy fire's reviving glow. 

Beguile in social converse evenings drear. 
And if at such an hour a transient thought 

Of vam regret for blessings known no more 
Should cross my mind ; thy friendship, richly fraught 

With consolation, shall my peace restore ; 
Grateful I'll bow to Heaven's supreme decree. 
Which, though it call'd for much, yet left me thee. 



29 



838 POEMS 



SONNET. 

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

" Another, and another still succeeds ! " 
And one by one are from us call'd away, 
Friends — valued, loved, and cherish'd many a day. 

For noble thoughts and honourable deeds. 

Yet reckon not that we have leant on reeds, 

"Which brokt to pierce us, when, without dismay, 
In such we have reposed that trust and stay 

For which, e'en from the grave, their virtue pleads. 

The loved are not the lost ! though gone before : 
To live in others' hearts is not to die ! 
Worth thus embalm'd by faithful memory, 

As dead — it were ungrateful to deplore ; 

Having outlived the grave is one proof more 
That it was born for immortality ! 



POEMS. 339 



WRITTEN IN A PRAYER-BOOK GIVEN TO MY 
DAUGHTER. 

My creed requires uo form of prayer; 

Yet would I not condemn 
Those who adopt with pious care 

Their use as aids to them. 

One God hath fashion'd them and me; 

One Spirit is our guide; 
For each, alike, upon the tree 

One common Saviour died ! 

Each the same trumpet-call shall wake, 

To face one judgment-seat; 
God give us grace, for Jesus' sake, 

In the same heaven to meet ! 



INSCRIPTION FOR A CEMETERY. 

Time may be lost, and soon shall be destroy'd ; 

No watchman cries the hour beneath the sod : 
Death dost thou dread ? the sting of death avoid : 

Seek'st thou for pleasure ? learn to please thy God. 



340 POEMS. 



TO A. L 



There are who travel ''life's dull road," 
Whom discontent with ceaseless goad 
Drives forward, murmuring at their load 

Of care and woe; 
Regardless of the good bestow 'd 

On all below. 

Let us more patiently sui-vey 
The prospect, gilded by the ray 
Of hope, and cheer'd by fancy gay, 

A lovely pair I 
And from our spirits cast away 

All vain despair. 

Believe me, Anne, though I have striven. 
On life's rough ocean tempest driven, 
And borne the heaviest stroke that Heaven 

Inflicts on man, 
I will not aught withheld or given 

Presume to scan. 

And though I often must retrace 
The griefs Nvliich time can not efface, 
I 'm not so selfish, blind or base, 

As to repine 
That she has joiu'd the angelic race 

Who once was mine. 



POEMS. 341 

Amid this bitterness of woe 
Yet it has been my lot to know 
The comfort friendship can bestow, 

The kindly tear 
That sympathy has made to flow 

From hearts sincere. 

To thee, my friend, may Heaven assign 
A more auspicious fate than mine : 
May pure religion's light divine 

Thy steps attend, 
And cheer with influence benign 

Thy journey's end. 



LANDGUARD PORT. 

Along the sands, and by the sound 

Of ocean, moaning night and day, 
It stands; — its lonely burial-ground 

Scatter'd with low stones, moss'd and grey, 
Whose brief inscriptions waste away 

Beneath the ocean-breeze's spell; 
And there, beneath the moon's pale ray, 

Still walks the nightly centinel. 
29* 



342 P E M B . 



TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS. 

The waters of Bethesda's pool 
Were to the outward eye as clear, 

And to the outward touch as cool, 
Before the visitant drew near. 

But, while untroubled, they possess'd 
No healing virtue : — gentle friend, 

Is there no fount within the breast 
To which an angel may descend? 

0, while the soul unruffled lies 

Its mirror only can display. 
However beautiful their dyes. 

The forms of things that pass away. 

But when its troubled waters own 
A Saviour's presence — in the wave 

The healing power of grace is known, 
And found omnipotent to save. 

A glimpse of glories far more bright 
Than earth can give is mirror'd there; 

And perfect purity and light 
The presence of its God declare. 



POEMS 



348 



TARDY APPROACH OF SPRING. 

E'en now, my daily labour done, 
When faintly gleams the setting sun, 
I wander forth : while, all around, 
The ear can catch no livelier sound 
Than gusts of wind, which, hurrying by. 
Through yonder branches seem to sigh; 
Unless on evening's gale should float, 
In fitful swell, the casual note 
Of martial music * — faintly caught, 
With pleasing melancholy fraught. 
And though the lengtheu'd day would fain 
Assert fair Spring's returning reign. 
The leafless boughs, the sighing gale. 
The gathering clouds, the misty veil 
Which shroud the sun's declining ray, 
Confess stern Winter's lengthen'd sway. 
Yet still to me this dreary hour. 
This shadowy landscape, has the power 
To soothe my pensive troubled heart, 
And tranquillizing bliss impart. 
I like to see bleak Winter yield 
To Spring reluctantly the field ; 

* In 1811, when there was a garrison at Woodbridge. 



344 POEMS. 

I love to mark the watery gleam 
Of sunshine on the Deben's stream; 
While still in some sequester'd lane, 
Screen'd from the blast that sweeps the plain, 
Some little flower its head uprears, 
Smiling even amid its tears, 
Whose chilly drops shall soon be dried, 
And Flora claim her garland's pride. 



THE VALLEY OF FERN. 

PART II. 

Thou art changed, lovely spot ! and no more thou dis- 
playest. 

To the eye of thy votary, that negligent grace. 
Which, in moments the saddest, the tenderest, the gayest, 

Allured him so oft thy recesses to trace. 
The hand of the spoiler has fallen upon thee. 

And marr'd the wild beauties that deck'd thee before ; 
And the charm.s, which a poet's warm praises had won 
thee, 

Exist but in memory, and bless thee no more. 



POEMS. 345 

The green, palmy fern, which the softest and mildest 
Of summer's light breezes could ruffle, — is fled ; 

And the bright-blossom'd ling, which spread o'er thee her 
wildest 
And wantonest hues, — is uprooted and dead. 

Yet now, even now, that thou neither belongest, 

Or seem'st to belong, unto nature or art; 
The love I still bear thee is deepest and strongest, 

And thy fate but endears thee the more to my heart. 
Thou art passing away, like some beautiful vision. 

From things which now are, unto those that have been ! 
And wilt rise to my sight, like a landscape elysian, 

With thy blossoms so bright, and thy verdure so green. 
Thou wilt dwell in remembrance, among those recesses. 

Which Fancy still haunts, though they were and are 
not; 
Whose loveliness lives, and whose beauty still blesses, 

And, though ceasing to be, can be never forgot. 

We know all we see in this beauteous creation, 

However enchanting its beauty may seem, 
Is doom'd to dissolve — like some bright exhalation. 

That dazzles and fades in the morning's first beam. 
The gloom of dark forests, the grandeur of mountains, 

The verdure of meads, and the beauty of flowers, 
The seclusion of valleys, the freshness of fountains. 

The sequester'd delights of the loveliest bowers : 



346 POEMS. 

Nay, more than all these, that the might of old Ocean, 
Which seems as it was on the day of its birth, 

Must meet the last hour of convulsive commotion, 
Which, sooner or later, will uncreate earth. 



Yet acknowledging this, it may be that the feelings 

Which these have awaken'd, the glimpses they 've given, 
Combined with those inward and holy revcalings 

That illumine the soul with the brightness of heaven, 
May still be immortal, and destined to lead us, 

Hereafter, to that which shall not pass away; 
To the loftier destiny God hath decreed us. 

The glorious dawn of an unending day. 
And thus like the steps of the ladder ascended 

By angels, (which rose on the patriarch's eye,) 
With the perishing beauties of earth may be blended 

Sensations too pure and too holy to die. 



Nor would Infinite Wisdom have plann'd and perfected, 

With such grandeur aud majesty, beauty and grace. 
The world we inhabit; and thus have connected 

The heart's better feelings with Nature's fair face; 
If the touching emotions, thus deeply excited. 

Towards Him who made all things, left nothing behind, 
Which, enduring beyond all that sense has delighted. 

Becomes intellectual, immortal, as mind ! 



POEMS. 347 

But they do ; and the heart that most fondly has cherish'd 
Such feelings, nor suffer'd their ardour to chill, 

Will find, when the forms which inspired them have per- 
ish'd, 
Their spirit and essence remain with it still. 



Thus thinking, I would not recall the brief measure 

Of praise, lovely valley ! devoted to thee ; 
Well has it been won by the moments of pleasure 

Afibrded to others and chaunted by me. 
May their thoughts and mine often silently ponder 

Over every loved spot that our feet may have trod ; 
And teach us, while through Nature's beauties we wander, 

All space is itself but the temple of God ! 
That so when our spirits shall pass through the portal 

Of Death, we may find, in a state more sublime 
Immortality owns what could never be mortal ! 

And eternity hallows some visions of time ! 



348 POEMS. 



TO CHARLOTTE M- 



" TnoTj art but in life's morning ! " Years have sped 
Their silent flight, since thus my idle rhyme 
Address'd thee in thy being's opening prime ; 

If, since that hour, some clouds at times have spread 

Their shadow o'er thy path, these have not shed 
Their wrath upon thee ; but, from time to time, 
Have led thy spirit sunnier heights to climb, 

Communing with the loved, lamented dead. 

And still thou art but in the later morn 
Of thy existence — hearts of finest mould 
, And best affections are erapower'd to hold 

The purer, nobler feelings with them born. 

Which will not let them droop, of hope forlorn, 
Nor by a few brief years grow dull and cold. 

[1828.] 



POEMS, 349 



SCOTT OF AMWELL. 

In childhood's dawn, in boyhood's later days, 
Dear to my heart the Bard of Amwell's lays : 
Whether his Muse portray'd upon her scroll 
The ever-changing " Seasons/' as they roll ; 
Or touch'd the heart's more tender sympathies, 
Mourning the rupture of love's sweetest ties ; 
Or whether, with a genuine past'ral grace, 
The simple scenery round her loved to trace, 
And tune her Doric reed, or artless lyre, 
To Amwell's tufted groves, and modest spire; 
Or, mindless how the world's vain glory frown'd, 
Denounced the martial "drum's discordant sound;" 
Or true to Nature's social feelings, penn'd 
Sonnets and rhymes to many a distant friend ; — 
Whate'er the theme — truth, tenderness, in all 
Their echo woke, and held my heart in thrall. 



And, even now, in health and strength's decay, 
Ay, on this cheerless, dull November day, 
When moaning winds through trees all leafless sigh. 
And all is sad that greets the ear and eye ; 
Now in my heart of hearts, I cherish still 
The lingering throb, the unextinguish'd thrill, 
30 



350 POEMS. 

Woke by the magic of his verse of yore, 
When new to me the Muse's gentle lore ; 
And gratefully confess the boundless debt 
Due to my boyhood's benefactor yet; 
Nor boyhood's only — when his page I scan, 
What charm'd the child, still fascinates the man, 
And better test of merit none need claim, 
Than thus in youth and age to seem the same. 



Some griefs there are which seem to form 

Our nature's heaviest doom; 
Which like some dark and dreadful storm 

Cover the soul with gloom; 
And with the tempest's direful wrath 
Leave devastation in their path. 



But others soft as summer-showers 

Descend upon the heart, 
And to its most delightful flowers 

Fresh loveliness impart; 
Awakening feelings not of earth, 
Which could not owe to joy their birth. 



POEMS. 351 



STANZAS. 



I PEEL that I am growing old, 

Nor wish to hide that truth, 
Conscious my heart is not more cold 

Than iu my by-gone youth. 

I cannot roam the country round 

As I was wont to do; 
My feet a scantier circle bound, 

My eyes a dimmer view. 

But on my mental vision rise 
Bright scenes of beauty still, — 

Morn's splendour, evening's glowing skies. 
Valley and grove and hill. 

Nor can infirmities o'erwhelm 

The purer pleasures brought 
From the immortal spirit's realm 

Of feeling and of thought. 

My heart! let no dismay or doubt 

In thee an entrance win, 
Thou hast enjoy'd thyself without. 

Now seek thy joy within ! 

[1845.] 



352 POEMS. 



There be those who sow beside 
The waters that in silence glide, 
Trusting no echo will declare 
Whose footsteps ever wander'd there. 

The noiseless footsteps pass away, 
The stream flows on as yesterday; 
Nor can it for a time be seen 
A benefactor there had been. 

Yet think not that the seed is dead 
Which in the lonely place is spread; 
It lives — it lives — the spring is nigh. 
And soon its life shall testify. 

That silent stream, that desert ground. 
No more unlovely shall be found; 
But scatter'd flowers of simplest grace 
Shall spread their beauty round the place. 

And soon or late a time will come 
When witnesses, that now are dumb, 
With grateful eloquence shall tell 
From whom the seed there scatter'd fell. 



POEMS. 353 



TO THE WIFE OF ONE DISAPPOINTED OF HIS 
ELECTION TO PARLIAMENT. 



Lady, I send this tributary strain 
Not to condole, but to congratulate : 
I would not so insult thy noble mate 

As to suppose defeat could give him pain. 

Not worthless was the struggle, though in vain, 
Which leaves the vanquish'd victor over fate, 
Up-bearing still with head and heart elate. 

And with a conscience wholly free from stain. 

The world may shout upon the winning side, 
Yet he who loses not his self-control, 
But stands erect with independent soul. 

Though foil'd has still a better source of pride ; 

And may be envied — seated by thy side. 

First in thy heart, though last upon the poll ! 



30* 



354 POEMS 



TO SOME FRIENDS 

RETURNING FROM THE SEA-SIDE. 

Forget not the moments 

I've wander' d with you, 
When Nature was glorious, 

And beautiful too. 

When the dash of the billow 
That broke on the beach. 

Made loftier music 

Than science can reach. 

When the clouds, sailing over 

The bright azure sky, 
Look'd like structures of glory 

That proudly pass'd by. 

When the breeze sweeping near us 

Scem'd life to impart. 
And each glowing sun-beam 

Shone into the heart. 



POEMS. 355 



think of those moments, 
When home you return ! 

And the social fire blazing 
Before you shall burn. 

While you, sitting by it, 

With many a smile, 
And sisterly converse, 

The hours shall beguile. 

Should fancy then wander, 

As wander it will, 
May it come back and tell you 

I think of you still. 

Should you, when 'tis star-light, 

Look out on the sky. 
And Jupiter's glory 

Flash full on your eye; — 

Will you then remember 
How brightly he shone 

In our lone sea-side parlour. 
When daylight was gone ? 

Or, when nights are stormy. 
And winter winds high. 

When the war of the elements 
Sweeps through the sky; — 



28 



356 POEMS. 

Should it rouse you from slumber, 

May memory awake; 
And the sounds that disturb you 

Be sweet for its sake. 

Be the tone of the tempest 
Like that of the sea, 

And in pauses of silence 
Grive one thou";ht to me ! 



A VILLAGE CHURCH. 



How quietly it stands within the bound 
Of its low wall of grey and mossy stone ! 

And like a shepherd's peaceful flock around 

Their guardian gather'd — graves or tombstones strown 
]Makc their last narrow resting-places known, 

Who, living, loved it as a holy spot ; 

And dying, did their deep attachment own 

By wishing here to sleep when life was not. 

And that some humble sign might keep them unforgot. 



POEM S. 



367 



TO A FRIEND. 



ON HER BIRTH-DAY 

• 

This is thy birth-day ! and for friendship's sake, 

Ev'n in this gloomiest season of the year, 
Feelings as warm as spring could ever wake 

Have chronicled, and bid me hold it dear. 

The heart has in itself a hemisphere 
That knows not change of season, day or night ; 

For still when thoughts of those we love are near, 
Their cherish'd forms arise before our sight. 
And o'er the spirit shed fresh sunshine and delight 

Nature, who wore when few months since we met 
Her summer garb, a different dress displays ; 

Your garden walks may now be moss'd and wet; 
The jasmine's star-like bloom, which, in the rays 
Of the bright moon seem'd lovely to my gaze, 

Has faded now ; and the green leaves, that grew 
So lightly on the acacia's topmost sprays, 

Have lost, ere this, the beauty of their hue, 

And quiver o'er the path their reliques soon must strew. 



358 i> o E .Ai s . 

Is there uouglit left then loveliness to lend 
Unto the spot my memory loves to trace ? 

Should I now find, were I to come and spend 
A day with you, no beauty left to grace 
What seemed of quiet joy the dwelling-place ? 

Oh, yes ! believe me, much as I admired 

Those charms which change of seasons can efface, 

It was not such alone, when home retired. 

That memory cherish'd most, or most the Muse inspired. 

When Nature sheds her leafy loveliness, 

She does not die : her vital principle 
But seeks awhile its innermost recess, 

And there securely finds a citadel 

Which even winter owns impregnable ; 
The sap, retreating downward to the root. 

Is still alive, as spring shall shortly tell. 
By swelling buds, whence blossoms soon will shoot, 
Dispensing fragrance round, and pledge of future fruit. 

And thus our best affections, lliosc which bind 

Heart unto heart ])y friendship's purest tie, 
Have an internal life, and are enshrined 

Too deeply in our bosoms soon to die. 

Spring's opening bloom and summer's azure sky 
Might lend them animation scarce their own ; 

But when November winds arc loud and high. 
And Nature's dirge assumes its deepest tone. 
The joy of social hours in fullest charm is known. 



POEMS. 359 



'AND I SAID, THIS IS MY INFIRMITY, BUT I WILL REMEMBER 
THE YEARS OF THE RIGHT HAND OF THE MOST HIGH."— 

PSAIM LXXVII. 10. 



Almighty Father ! in these lines, though brief, 
Of thy most holy word, how sweet to find 
Meet consolation for the troubled mind, 

Nor for the suffering body less relief! 

When pain or doubt would as a nightly thief 
Rob me of faith and hope in Thee enshrined, 
be there to these blessed words assigned 

Balm for each wound, a cure for every grief 

Yes, I will think of the eternal years 

Of Thy right hand — the love, the ceaseless care, 
The tender sympathy Thy works declare. 

And Thy woi'd seals ; until misgiving fears. 

Mournful disquietudes, and faithless tears. 
Shall pass away as things that never were. 



J60 POEMS. 



A NEW-YEAK OFFERING, 

ADDRESSED TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 
1847. 

Once more bath Time's revolving flight. 

Which knows no stop, and brooks no stay, 
From busy day, or silent night. 

Brought us another " New-year's Day : " 
And I, who oft, with votive lay, 

Have heralded the new-born year. 
Once more feel bound my debt to pay. 

Although with trembling, and in fear. 

For who that has attaiu'd threescore. 

And upwards, — glancing to the past, 
Conning the future, too, once more. 

And conscious that life's sands ebb fast. 
While clouds his evening sky o'er-cast, 

But well may feel — that as to all 
An hour must come, of life the last ! 

How soon the night round him may fall ! 



POEMS, 361 

But this must be as God shall will! 

Suns rise, and set j moons wax, and wane ; 
Stars hold their onward courses still; 

And ebbs and flows the mighty main; 
The trees, now leafless on the plain. 

Shall bud and blossom with the Spring; 
And Summer deck with flowers again 

Valley, and hill, where wild birds sing. 



Hope springs perpetual in the breast. 

That one more year may yet be ours; 
And though this cannot be our rest, 

Life's roughest paths have still theii* flowers ; 
E'en through the cloud that darkest lours 

Some gleams of sunshine find their way; 
The dreaded storm goes off in showers. 

And, once more, all around looks gay. 



Hence, e'en in seasons dark and drear. 

When Winter binds the frozen earth. 
By many a blazing fire we hear 

The blythesome laugh of joyous mirth : 
And, round the cheerful household hearth, 

The kindly wish, the look, the word, 
Call'd forth in spite of Nature's dearth, 

Are kindling, as a fire just stirr'd ! 
31 



362 POEMS. 

It is tlie season of the year 

When thoughts and feelings, apt to roam 
While groves are green and skies are clear, 

TJp-gather, and unfold at home! 
In lowly hut, or lordly dome, 

Greetings of glee are interchanged; 
E'en wanderers on the salt sea-foam, 

From kindred seem no more estranged. 



They gaily trim their cabin fire, 

And think of those — who, by the light 
Of their own hearths, now blazing higher, 

To hail this festal day and night, 
With many a jocund New-year rite. 

And thoughts nor tide nor time can stem. 
Their home-bound memories now requite. 

And turn, instinctively, to them. 



Hail to the time ! when social joys, 

In which the humblest have their part. 
Give birth to bliss which seldom cloys. 

But binds more closely heart to heart; 
And if unbidden tears may start 

At gaps, by death or absence made, 
A better hope will cheer the heart 

Of unions that shall never fade. 



POEMS. 363 

What marvel, then, if at this time, 

That English hearts, in grief, or glee, 
Hallow'd by many a midnight chime. 

Brighten' d by many a holly-tree, 
With its green leaves, and berries free 

To glisten in home's happy smiles, 
My heart should fondly turn to thee, 

Who rulest o'er our sea-girt Isles ? 



Where are the links that home endear, 

The joys which gladden its fire-side, 
More fondly loved and prized than here, 

Search where you will the world so wide? 
Such in their purer bliss, and pride. 

Thy consort's, children's smiles inspire; 
With such is evermore allied 

The memory of thy noble sire ! 



To the true soul of England's Queen, 

In English hearts and homes to live. 
And rule them with a sway serene, 

Should be a proud prerogative. 
A WIFE, a mother, must receive 

From empery so pure and high, 
A joy the sceptre cannot give, 

Nor all the pomp of courts supply. 



364 POEMS. 

The loyalty that owes its birth 

To happy hearts — must far transcend, 
And boast a higher, purer worth, 

Than common homage can pretend; 
For thoughts and feelings with it blend, 

Which have their origin above ! 
And ever to their birth-place tend. 

Whose loyalty is based on love. 

Then may this coming year — to thee, 

And THINE, with every good be fraught; 
From shore to shore, from sea to sea. 

May seeming ill be overwrought, 
And into such subjection brought. 

By Him who loves to guard the right. 
That skies now dark to boding thought. 

May round thee beam in cloudless light. 



POEMS. 365 



'NO MAN THAT WARRETH ENTANGLETH HIMSELF WITH THE 
AFFAIRS OF THIS LIFE, THAT HE MAY PLEASE HLM WHO HATH 
CHOSEN HIM TO BE A SOLDIER." — 2 Timothy ii. 4. 



He who would win a warrior's fame, 
Must shun, with ever watchful aim, 

Entangling things of life; 
His couch the earth, heaven's arching dome 
His airy tent, — his only home 

The field of martial strife. 

Unwearied by the battle's toil, 
Uncumber'd by the battle's spoil, 

No dangers must affright; 
Nor rest seduce to slothful ease ; 
Intent alone his chief to please, 

Who call'd him forth to fight. 

Soldier of Christ, if thou would'st be 
Worthy that epithet, stand free 

From time's encumb'ring things; 
Be earth's enthralments fear'd, abhorr'd ; 
Knowing, thy Leader is the Lord, 

Thy Chief the King of kings ! 
31* 



366 POEMS, 



THE BIBLE. 

Lamp of our feet ! whereby we trace 
Our path, when wont to stray; 

Stream from the fount of heavenly grace ! 
Brook by the traveller's way ! 

Bread of our souls ! whereon we feed ; 

True manna from on high ! 
Our guide, and chart ! wherein we read 

Of realms beyond the sky. 

Pillar of fire — through watches dark ! 

Or radiant cloud by day ! 
When waves would whelm our tossing bark - 

Our anchor and our stay ! 

Pole-star on life's tempestuous deep ! 

Beacon ! when doubts suiTound 
Compass ! by which our course we keep ; 

Our deep sea-land, to sound ! 

Riches in poverty ! our aid 

In every needful hour ! 
Unshaken rock ! the pilgrim's shade j 

The soldier's fortress tower! 



p o i: M s . 367 

Our shield and buckler in the fight ! 

Victory's triumphant palm 1 
Comfort in grief ! in weakness, might ! 

In sickness, Gilead's balm ! 

Childhood's preceptor! manhood's trust! 

Old age's firm ally ! 
Our hope — when we go down to dust, 

Of immortality ! 

Pure oracles of Truth Divine ! 

Unlike each fabled dream 
Given forth from Delphos' mystic shrine, 

Or groves of Academe ! 

Word of the Ever-liviug God ! 

Will of His glorious Son ! 
Without Thee how could earth be trod? 

Or heaven itself be won? 

Yet to unfold thy hidden worth, 

Thy mysteries to reveal. 
That Spirit which first gave thee forth 

Thy volume must unseal ! 

And we, if we aright would learn 

The wisdom it imparts, 
Must to its heavenly teaching turn 

With simple, child-like hearts ! 



368 POEMS. 



The springs of life are failing one by one, 

And Age with quicken'd step is drawing nigh ; 

Yet would I heave no discontented sigh, 
Since cause for cold ingratitude is none. 
If slower through my veins life's tide may run, 

The heart's young fountains are not wholly dry; 

Though evening clouds shadow my noontide sky, 
Night cannot quench the spirit's inward sun ! 
Once more, then, ere the eternal bourn be pass'd, 

Would I my lyre's rude melody essay ; 

And, while amid the chords my fingers stray. 
Should Fancy sigh — " These strains may be its last ! " 
Yet shall not this my mind with gloom o'ercast. 

If my day's work be finish'd with the day ! 



POEMS. 369 



VERSES TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 



If, long ere this, no lay of mine, 

Has been to thee devoted, 
'Tis not because such worth as thine 

Has idly pass'd unnoted. 

To charms more transient, tribute due 

Has oft been idly chanted; 
And auburn locks, or eyes of blue, 

Have gain'd what folly wanted ! 

To beauty's song and beauty's smile 
My Muse has homage render'd; 

And unto many a trifling wile 
Some trifling meed has tender'd. 

In praising such, my short-lived song 

Did all that I desired it; 
It lived, perchance, about as long 

As that which fii'st inspired it. 

Not such, my friend, the song for thee; 

Did I that lyre inherit. 
Which Cowper woke, its strings should be 

Responsive to thy merit. 



370 POEMS. 

Thou art uot one whose path has been 
Strew'd but with summer roses; 

With sky above of blue serene, 
Which never storm discloses. 

Who tread such paths, M'ith graceful glee, 
May CTill what clusters round them ; 

And, fading, may to memory be 
Just like the flowers that crown 'd them. 

But in the bloom of youth to tread 
As through a desert drear}-; 

With much to harass heart and head. 
To harass and to weary; 

So circumstanced, to cultivate 
Each flower that leisure graces; 

And thus to find, in spite of fate, 
Sweet spots in desert places : 

To do all this, and still to be, 

In social life, a woman 
From half thy sex's follies free. 

Is merit far from common. 



POEMS. 371 



The lamp will shed a feeble glimmering light, 
When the sustaining oil is nearly spent j 
The small stars twinkle in the firmament. 

And the moon's paler orb arise on night, 

When day has waned ; the scathed tree, despite 
Of age, look green, with ivy-wreaths besprent ; 
And faded roses yet retain a scent. 

When death has made them loveless to the sight. 

So linger on, as seeming loth to die. 

Light, colour, sweetness ; thus unto the last 
The poet o'er his worn-out lyre will cast 

A nerveless hand, and still new numbers try ; 

Not unrewarded, if its parting sigh 

Seem like the lingering echo of the past. 



372 POEMS. 



JACOB WRESTLING. 

' And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me." —Genesis xxiii. 2C. 

Noble words, heroic vow, 

Worthy imitation; 
Meet to waken, even now, 

Holy emulation. 

Seed of Jacob ! you who share 

Aught of Israel's spirit. 
Wrestle thus in fervent prayer, 

Blessing to inherit. 

Prayer, surpassing human might; 

Prayer, heaven's holy portress; 
Prayer, the saint's supreme delight, 

Prayer, the sinner's fortress. 

Prayer and faith can joy impart, 

Joy beyond expressing, 
And call down upon the heart 

Israel's richest blessing. 



POEMS. 373 



WINTER EVENING DITTY. 

FOR A LITTLE GIRL. 

'T IS dark and cold abroad, my love, but warm and bright 

within, 
So ransack o'er thy treasured store, and evening's sports 

begin ; 
Thy playthings, what an endless list ! thy dolls, both great 

and small; 
Empty thy Lilliputian hoard, and let us see them all. 

There's not a king who wears a crown, nor miser hoarding 

pelf, 
More absolute and rich than thou, my little sportive elf; 
Those dolls thy docile subjects are, that footstool is thy 

throne. 
And all the wealth which mammon boasts is worthless to 

thy own. 

Or must it be a living thing, to please thy fancy now. 
There 's puss, although she looks so grave, as fond of play 

as thou; 
Who patiently submits to sports which common cats would 

tire. 
Contented, if she can but keep her post beside the fire. 

32 



374 POEMS. 

She quietly consents to be in baby garments drest, 
Or, in thy little cradle rock'd, as quietly will rest ; 
I know not which most happy seems when mirthful is your 

air, 
Nor could I find a puck, or puss, with either to compare. 

But if a graver mood be thine — with needle and with 

thread — 
When sport grows dull, e'en give it o'er, and play at work 

instead ; 
Yet much I doubt, though sage thy look, and busy as a bee, 
Whether that fit of sempstress-ship will long suppress thy 

glee. 

But hark ! I hear the curfew-bell — thy little eyes grow dim ; 
Put by thy work, dolls, toys, and all — and say thy evening 

hymn : 
'Tis said ! now bid us all farewell, kiss dear mamma — and 

then 
Sweet sleep and pleasant dreams be thine till morning dawn 

again. 



POEMS. 375 



'AND THE BARREL OF MEAL WASTED NOT, NEITHER DID THE 
CRUSE OF OIL FAIL, ACCORDING TO THE WORD OF THE LORD, 
WHICH HE SPAKE BY ELIJAH." — 1 Kings xvii. 16. 



How rich is poverty's scant hoard, 
When God hath bless'd its lot! 

How poor the heaps that wealth has stored, 
If He hath bless'd them not ! — 

Witness proud Ahab's regal dome, 

And the poor widow's humble home. 

There dwelt she, with sufficient food 

For nature's simple calls; 
While fear and caution sentries stood 

Beside the monarch's walls : — 
Her cruse by power unseen was fed, 
Her meal supplied their daily bread. 

Is there no cruse whose store should feed 

Devotion's hallow'd fire? 
No living bread, whose daily need 

Our deathless souls require? 
Are there not seasons when we sigh 
In secret o'er our scant supply? 



376 POEMS. 

Be ours the faith the widow knew, 
When she the seer supplied, 

So shall we own the promise true, 
God's goodness will provide; 

The meal shall last, the cruse fail not 

Till plenty be our spirits' lot. 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD OF EXTRAORDINARY 
ENDOWMENTS AND PIETY. 



It is not length of years which lends 
The brightest loveliness to those 

Whose memory with our being blends, 
Whose love within our bosom glows. 

The age we honour standcth not 

In locks of snow, or length of days; 

But in a life which knows no spot, 
A heart which heavenly wisdom sways. 

For wisdom taught by Heavenly Truth, 
Unlike mere worldly wisdom, finds 

Its full maturity in youth, 
Its antitype in infant minds. 



POEMS. 377 

Thus was this child made early wise, 

Wise as those sages who, from far, 
Beheld at once in Bethlehem's skies 

The new-born Saviour's herald star. 

No more could learning do for them 

Than guide them in the path they trod; 

And the same star of Bethlehem 
Led this child's spirit to his God. 

Well may his memory be dear. 

Whose loss is still its sole alloy; 
Whose happy lot dries every tear 

With holy hope and humble joy. 

''The brightest star in Morning's host" 
Is that which shines in twilight skies; 

"Scarce ris'n, in brighter beams 'tis lost," 
And vanishes from mortal eyes. 

Its loss inspires a brief regret. 

Its loveliness is unforgot; 
We know full well 'tis shining yet, 

Although we may behold it not. 



32 



378 POEMS, 



TO THE "BERNARD BARTON" SCHOONER. 

Glide gently down thy native stream, 

And swell thy snowy sail 
Before fair April's morning beam, 

And newly waken'd gale. 

Thine onward course in safety keep, 

By favouring breezes fann'd, 
Along the billows of the deep 

To Mersey's distant strand. 

Thou bearest no such noble name 

As all who read may know; 
But one at least that well may claim 

The blessing I bestow. 

That name was given to honour me 
By those with whom I dwell; 

And cold indeed my heart would be 
Did I not speed thee well. 

Not all the glory those acquire, 

"Who far for glory roam, 
Can match the humble heart's desire 

For love fulfill'd at home. 



POEMS. 379 



BIRTH-DAY VERSES; 

AT SIXTY-FOUR. 

Time, that, as he travels past, 
Seems sometimes slow and sometimes fast, 
Swift as bird, when all looks bright. 
Slow as snail, in sorrow's night; 
Time, that, with a little span, 
Measures out the life of man, 
And draws the limit at four-score. 
Has brought me now to Sixty-four, 



When, with retrospective eye, 
Age considers days gone by, 
And contrasts the dreams of youth 
With the present's sterner truth. 
In our outward, inward frame. 
Scarcely we appear the same ! 
Yet the contrast why deplore? 
Come it must at Sixty-four. 



380 POEMS. 

Fancy, painting all things bright, 

Gay Hope, shedding cloudless light, J 

Sanguine ardour for all good, ^ 

In itself scarce understood, 

Buoyant spirits, health robust, — 

Such, with time, must yield their trust j 

And with most their sway is o'er 

Ere they come to Sixty-four. 

Then the weary Fancy palls; 
Sober Truth gay Hope enthrals; 
Good — we would aspire to still. 
Hopeless seems 'mid so much ill; 
Buoyant spirits lose their sway; 
Health declines, and must decay; 
Till sad hearts sicken at the core, 
Reviewing life at Sixty-four. 

Yet this should not be the end 
Unto which life ought to tend; 
Such were but the bud, the bloom. 
Of a morn that fear'd no gloom; 
Bud and bloom should leave behind 
Fruit to feed the immortal mind: 
Spirit! count thine inward store; 
Hast thou none at Sixty-four? 



POEMS. 381 

Is the past a barren void? 

Hast thou sufFer'd, and cnjoy'd, 

Loathed, and loved, and felt, and thought, 

Yet from all hast gather'd nought, 

Which, the flower now past and gone. 

Thou canst inly feed upon? 

Life has taught thee no true lore, 

Lacking such at Sixty-four. 



Though thy health and strength decline, 
Though thy drooping spirits pine 
Though full many a friend be fled. 
And full many a loved one dead; 
Thou art not left all alone. 
O'er the past to make thy moan; 
But Jlchor''s valley is a door 
Of hope to thee — at Sixty-four. 



Friends well-tried, and kindred dear, 
Filial love — are left to cheer; 
Sweetest memories of the past. 
Fondly cherish'd to the last; 
Hopes that soar, and thoughts that climb 
Far beyond the verge of time; 
Healing influence round thee pour. 
And call for thanks ! — at Sixty-four. 



f 



382 POEMS. 

Weariness will follow those 
Who touch upon theii* journey's close; 
But as the sun, though setting, bums 
Still brightl}', and to glory turns 
The very clouds that round him roll; 
So, even so, do thou, my soul. 
With in-born radiance, more and more, 
Illume the shades of Sixty-four. 



Nay, let a 3'et Diviner power 
Glorify thy latter hour : 
Too long faithless and forlorn. 
Earthly image thou hast borne ; 
Now that heavenly imi^ress seek. 
Which, when flesh is frail and weak. 
Gives the soul new power to soar, 
Eagle-wiug'd — at Sixty-four. 



POEMS. 383 



ON THE GLORY DEPICTED ROUND THE HEAD 
OF THE SAVIOUR. 



A BLAMELESS fancy it perchance might be 
Which first with glory's radiant halo crown'd Thee ; 

Art's reverent homage, eager all should see 
The majesty of Godhead beaming round Thee. 

But if thine outward image had been such, 
The glory of the inner God revealing, 

What hand had dared thy vesture's hem to touch, 
Though conscious even touch was fraught with healing ! 

More truly, but more darkly, prophecy 
The form of thy humanity had painted; 

One not to be desired of the eye, 
A Man of sorrows, and with grief acquainted. 

Saviour and Lord ! if in thy mortal hour 
Prophets and saints alone could tell thy story, 

how shall painter's art, or poet's power, 
Describe Thee coming in thy promised glory ! 



} 



384 POEMS. 



TO A GRANDMOTHER. 

"Old age is dark and unlovely." — Ossian. 

SAY not SO ! A bright old age is thine ; 

Calm as the gentle light of summer eves, 

Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves 
Because to thee is given, in thy decline, 
A heart that does not thanklessly repine 

At aught of which the hand of God bereaves, 

Yet all He sends with gratitude receives ; — 
May such a quiet thankful close be mine ! 

And hence thy fire-side chair appears to me 
A peaceful throne — which thou wert form'd to fill; 
Thy children, ministers who do thy will j 

And those grand-children, sporting round thy knee. 

Thy little subjects, looking up to thee 
As one who claims their fond allegiance still.* 

*"A good Sonnet. Dixi." — C". La.mb. 



POEMS. 385 



I WALKED the fields at morning prime, — 
The grass was ripe for mowing; 

The sky-lark sang his matin chime, 
And all the world was glowing. 

I wander'd forth at noon, — alas, 

On earth's maternal bosom 
The scythe had left the withering grass, 

And stretch'd the faded blossom. 

Once more at eve abroad I stray'd. 
Through lonely hay-fields musing, 

While every breeze that round me play'd 
The perfume was diffusing. 

And so the ''actions of the just," 
When memory has enshrined them. 

Breathe upward from decay and dust. 
And leave sweet scent behind them. 



33 



386 POEMS, 



ON A 

DRAWING OF NORWICH MARKET-PLACE, 

BY COTMAN.— TAKEN l.V 1807. 

Moments there are in which 
We feel it is not good to be alone ! 

Shrined in our narrow niche, 
As if we would all fellowship disown. 

And least of all for me, 
A poor recluse and book-worm, is it good 

An alien thus to be, 
Standing aloof from my own flesh and blood. 

In desk-work through the day, 
In minstrel labour to the noon of night, 

I would not wear away 
My sympathy with ever}' social right. 

In many an hour of thought. 
And solitary musing mood of mind, 

Good is it to be brought 
Thus into intercourse with human kind. 



1' o K M s . 387 

To see the populous crowd 
Who throng the busy market's ample space; 

To hear their murmur loud, 
And watch the workings of each busy face. 

To let my Fancy roam, 
As Fancy will, would we but grant her leave. 

With each unto his home — 
There finding what may glad the heart or grieve. 

On all around to look, 
With a true heart to feel and sympathize ; 

As reading in a book, 
Those countless windows looking down like eyes 

On the dense mass below — 
0, who can guess what feelings past and gone, 

Of varied weal or woe, 
Throbb'd in the busiest there, or lookers on ! 

Needs there a m-aver thouorht 
To give the motley scene more solemn power? 

How quickly is it brought 
By that old church's lengthen'd roof and tower ! 

It looks down on the scene 
Where buyers — sellers — earn their daily bread; 

Forming a link between 
The busy living and the silent dead. 



388 POEMS. 

And ever and anon, 
High above all that hubbub's mingled swell, 

Foi" some one dead and gone 
Is heard its deep sonorous funeral bell. 

Thirty-eight years gone by 
Thus did this motley moving medley look; 

And still unto mine eye 
It utters more than any printed book. 



THE SPIRITUAL LAW.* 



" But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, thai 
thou inaycst do it." — Dect. x.tx. U. 



Say not the Law Divine 
Is hidden from thee, or afar removed : 

That Law within would shine. 
If there its glorious light were sought and loved. 



•"I am particularly pleased witli the 'Spiritual Law.' It re- 
minded mc of Quarles, and holy Mr. Herbert, as Izaak Walton 
calls him — the two best, if not only, of our devotional poets; though 
some prefer Watts, and some Tom Moore." — C. Lamb. 



POEMS. 389 

Soar not ou high, 
Nor ask who thence shall bring it down to earth ; 

That vaulted sky 
Hath no such star, didst thou but know its worth. 

Nor launch thy bark 
In search thereof upon a shoreless sea, 

Which has no ark. 
No dove to bring this olive-branch to thee. 

Then do not roam 
In search of that which wandering cannot win : 

At home, at home 
That word is placed, thy mouth, thy heart within. 

0, seek it there, . 
Turn to its teachings with devoted will; 

Watch unto prayer. 
And in the power of faith this love fulfil. 



33^ 



390 POEMS. 



SONNET. 



The night seems darkest ere the dawn of day 
Rises with light and gladness on its wings : 
And every breaker that the ocean flings 

To shore before the tempest dies away, 

Some sign of wreck or token of dismay, 

Awakening thoughts of death and ruin, brings. 
But he whose spirit resolutely clings 

To his best hopes, on these his mind can stay. 
Faith, humble faith, can doubt and fear defy ; 

For every wound it bears a healing balm. 

Turns sorrow's moan into thanksgiving's psalm ; 
And those who trust in God when storms are high. 
And waves are rough, and starless is the sky. 

Shall sing his praise in the eternal calm. 



POEMS. 



391 



VISION OF AN OLD HOME. 



Straight before me rose 
A house where all was hush'd in calm repose ; 
For 'twas a summer morning, bright and fair, 
And none of human kind were near me there. 
Before the house there were some lofty trees, 
Whose topmost branches felt the morning breeze 
And glisten'd in the sunbeams ; these among 
"Were numerous rooks attending on their young, 
Whose clamorous cawings, as they hover'd round, 
Seem'd to my ear like Music's sweetest sound. 
Below, before the house, there was a space. 
Where in two rows were set, with bloomy grace, 
Orange and lemon trees ; which to the sun 
Open'd their fragrant blossoms every one ; 
And round them bees all busily were humming. 
Cheerily to their morning labours coming : — 
And in the centre of each space beside, 
An aloe spread its prickly leaves with pinde. 

***** 
Now in the garden of that house I stra/d. 
Its flowers, its mossy turf, its walks survey'd; 



392 POEMS. 

Explored each uook and roam'd through each recess 
With pleasure and light-hearted carelessness : 
Nor was it long before I found a walk 
Where I might meditate alone or talk ; — 
A grassy walk, with lime trees on one side, 
Bordering a pond which yet they did not hide ; 
For here and there upon its rippling bosom 
The water-lily oped her dewy blossom ; 
And, at the end of this sweet walk I found 
A grotto, where I listen'd to the sound 
Of turtle-doves, which in a room above, 
Were tremulously telling tales of love. 



TO FELICIA HEMANS. 

Much do I owe thee for the passing gleams 
Of verse, along my weary pathway thrown : 

Musical verse, that came like sound of streams 
Heard from afar, and in whose silver tone 
My soul the happy melodies could own 

That gladden'd childhood — like the softest breeze 
Breathing at eve from leafy copses lone, 

Mix'd with the song of birds, and hum of bees, 

With deeper notes between like sounds of mighty seas. 



POEMS. 393 

THE SQUIRREL. 
(for a child's book.) 

The squirrel is happy, the squirrel is gay, 

Little Henry exclaim'd to his brother. 
He has nothing to do or to think of but play, 

And to jump from one bough to another. 

But William was older and wiser, and knew 
That all play and no work would n't answer, 

So he ask'd what the squirrel in winter must do, 
If he spent all the summer a dancer. 

The squirrel, dear Harry, is merry and wise, 
For true wisdom and mirth go together; 

He lays up in summer his winter supplies, 
And then he don't mind the cold weather. 



It is a glorious summer eve, and in the glowing west, 
Pillow 'd on clouds of purple hue, the broad sun sinks to rest ; 
From me his radiant orb is hid behind the towering cliff, 
But brightly fall his parting beams on yonder seaward skiff. 

An hour it is when memory wakes, and turns to former 

years. 
And lives along the travell'd line of parted hopes and fears ; 
A time when buried joys and griefs arise and live again, 
Those sober'd in their happiness, these soffcen'd in their pain. 



394 POEMS 



PLAYFORD, 



Upon a bill-side green and fair 

The bappy traveller sees 
White cottages peep here and there 

Between the tufts of trees; 
With a white farm-house on the brow, 
And an old grey Hall below 

With moat and garden round ; 
And on a Sabbath wandering near 
Through all the quiet place you hear 

A Sabbath-bi-euthing sound 
Of the cburcb-bc'U slowly swinging 

In an old grc}' tower above 
The wooded bill, where birds are singing 

In the deep quiet of the grove ; — 
And when the b<ll shall cease to ring, 
And the birds no longer sing, 
And the grassboj^per is beard no more, 

A sound of praise, of prayer, 
Rises along the air, 
Like the sea murmur from a distant shore. 



POEM s . 395 



SONNETS TO BURSTAL* 
I. BERRY'S HILL. 

Who gave this spot the name of Berry's Hill ? 

I know not, and in sooth care not to know ; 

For names, like fashions, often come and go 
By mere caprice of arbitrary will ; 
But 'tis a lovely spot — enough of skill 

Hath been employ'd to make it lovelier show, 

Yet not enough for art to overthrow 
What Nature meant should be her livery still. 

That gleaming lakelet sparkling in the ray 
Of summer sunshine ; these embowering trees, 
Bustled each moment by the passing breeze ; 

And those which clothe with many-tinted spray 

Yon wooded heights ; green meads with flowerets gay ; 
Each gives to each yet added powers to please. 

* Tliese eight sonnets were composed during a day's visit to the 
village of Burstal, near Ipswich, in some grounds belonging to John 
Alexander. 



396 POEMS, 



n. 



THE SEAT AT BERRY'S HILL. 

It was a happy thought, upon the brow 
Of this slight eminence, abrupt and sheer, 
This artless seat and straw-thatch'd roof to rear; 

Where one may watch the labourer at his plough ; 

Or hear well-pleased, as I am listening now, 
The song of wild birds falling on the ear, 
Blended with hum of bees, or, sound more drear, 

The solemn murmur of the wind-swept bough. 
Tent-like the fabric — in its centre stands 

The sturdy oak, that spreads his boughs on high 

Above the roof: while to the unsated eye 

Beauteous the landscape which below expands, 
Where grassy meadows, richly cultured lands 

With leafy woods and hedge-row graces vie. 



POEMS. 397 



III. 



THE SAME SCENE. 



It were, methinks, no very daring flight 
Unto a poet's fond imagination, 
To make this tent a prouder habitation ; 

Where Nature's worshipper and votary might. 

With each appropriate and simple rite, 
Bow to her charms, in quiet adoration 
Of Him who meant his visible creation 

Should minister to more than outward sight. 
then this tent-like seat might well become 

A temple — more befitting prayer or praise 

Than the mere listless loiterer's idle gaze ; 
And if it struck the sordid worldling dumb, 
Proving of Nature's charms the countless sum, 

'T were not less worthy of the poet's praise. 



34 



398 POEMS, 



( 



IN THE SHRUBBERY NEAR THE COTTAGE. 

Fair Earth, thou surely ■wert not meant to be 
Time's show-room; but the glorious vestibule 
Of scenes that stretch beyond his sway and rule, 

Or that of aught we now can hear or see. 

For he who most intently looks at thee, 

Must be a novice e'en in Nature's school — 
In one far higher a more hopeless fool, 

To go no further with her master-key ! 
Beautiful as thou art, thou art no more 

Than a faint shadow or a glimmering ray 

Of beauty, glory, ne'er to pass away; 

Nor thankless is thy minstrel, at three-score. 
While he can revel in thy beauteous store, 

To look beyond thy transitory day. 



POEMS. 399 



THE BURSTAL LAKELET. 

The dweller on Ullswater's grander shore, 
Or Keswick's, would deny thee any claim 
Even to bear a lakelet's borrow'd name, 

Of thy small urn so scanty seems the store. 

And such would doubtless scout the poet's lore. 
Who one poor sonnet should presume to frame 
In celebration of thy humble fame. 

Although to theirs he could award no more. 
Yet all the pomp and plenitude of space 

They boast, can but reflect the wider scene 

Of beauty round ; as lovely is the sheen 
Of thy clear mirror, in which now I trace 
The soften'd impress and the heighten'd grace 

Of earth and sky both silent and serene. 



400 



POEMS, 



VI. 



TIIK TWO OAKS. 



There are among the leafy monarchs round, 
Trees loftier far than you, of ampler size, 
And likelier to attract a stranger's eyes. 

With sylvan honours more superbly crown'd. 

And yet in you a higher charm is found 
And purer — to our sweetest sympathies, 
Than all that Nature's lavish hand supplies 

To others, growing on this fairy ground. 
Ye are mementos of a wedded pair, 

Once wont this loved familiar scene to tread — 

Death, which has lowly laid one honour'd head, 
Has but confcrr'd ou you an added share 
Of love and interest, since to us you are 

Memorials of the living and the dead. 



POEMS. 401 



vn. 

EVENING IN THE VALLEY". 

"Earth lias not anytning to show more fair." 

So Wordsworth sang what time he made his theme 

The bridge that arches Westminster's proud stream j 
Yet had he seen this lovely valley wear 
The lingering brightness day hath yet to spare, 

Each lengthening shadow and each sunny gleam, 

Silent in all their changes as a dream. 
He might have doubted which the palm should bear. 

And now calm evening draws her curtain grey 
Over the melting twilight's mellower flush ; 
But for the brightly glowing roseate blush 

That tinges still the west, it fades away ; 

And Nature owns the meek and gentle sway 
Of pensive Twilight's uuiversal hush. 



34* 



402 POEMS. 



VIII. 

BORSTAL, IN THE FOUR SEASONS. 

How sweet it were, methinks, to sojourn here 
And watch the seasons in their changeful flight : 
To see the Spring bedeck with wild-flowers bright 

The valley and those swelling uplands near ; 

To mark the Summer in her blithe career 
Bursting in full luxuriance on the sight 
And matron Autumn re-assert her right 

To crown with harvest-boons the circling year. 
Nor undelightful would it be, I ween. 

At Christmas here to trim the cottage fire, 

Pore o'er the lay or tune the Muse's lyre, 

What time rude Winter, with his sterner mien, 
In spotless snow array'd the alter'd scene. 

And hush'd in stillness all the woodland choir. 



POEMS. 403 



KETIREMENT AND PRAYER. 

' And he withdrew himself into the wilderness and prayed." — LaEE v. 16. 

If thus our Lord himself withdrew, 

Stealing at times away, • 

E'en from the loved, the chosen few. 

In solitude to pray. 
How should his followers, frail and weak, 
Such seasons of retirement seek ! 

Seldom amid the strife and din 

Of sublunary things, 
Can spirits keep their watch within. 

Or plume their heaven-ward wings; 
He must dwell deep, indeed, whose heart 
Can thus fulfil true wisdom's part. 

Retirement must adjust the beam, 

And prayer must poise the scales, 
Our Guide, Example, Head supreme. 
In neither lesson fails; 
Oh, may we in remembrance bear. 
He sought retirement, — practised prayer ! 



404 POEMS, 



IN CCELO QUIES. 

Not in this weary world of ours 

Can perfect rest be found; 
Thorns mingle with its fairest flowers. 

Even on cultured ground; 
A brook — to drink of by the way, 

A rock — its shade to cast, 
May cheer our path from day to day, 

But such not long can last; 
Earth's pilgi-im, still, his loins must gird 

To seek a lot more blest; 
And this must be his onward word, — 

"In heaven, alone, is rest." 

This cannot be our resting-place ! 

Though now and then a gleam 
Of lovely nature, heavenly grace, 

May on it briefly beam : 
Grief's pelting shower. Care's dark'ning cloud, 

Still falls, or hovers near; 
And sin's pollutions often shroud 

The light of life, while here. 
Not till it "shuffle off the coil" 

In which it lies deprest, 
Can the pure spirit cease from toil; — 

"In heaven, alone, is rest!" 



POEMS. 405 



Rest to tiie weary anxious soul, 

That, on life's toilsome road, 
Bears onward to the destined goal 

Its heavy galling load ; 
Rest unto eyes that often weep 

Beneath the day's broad light. 
Or oftener painful vigils keep 

Through the dark hours of night ! 
But let us bear with pain and care, 

As ills to be redrest, 
Relying on the promise fair, — 

"In heaven there will be rest!" 



THE END. 



LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH THE 

AMERICAN FEMALE POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, 

BY 
CAROLINE MAY. 

AN ELEGANT VOLUME, WITH A HANDSOME VIGNETTE TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT OF MRS. OSGOOD. 

The Literary contents of this work contain copious selections from 

the writings of 

A-nne Bradstrect, Jauc Turell, Anne !Eliza Bleecker, Margaretta 

V. Fangcres, Pliillis Wlieatley, Mei'cy Warren, SaraU Porterj 

Sarali Wentwortli Morton, Mrs* Liittle, Maria A, Brooks, 

Ijydia Huntley Sigourney, Anna Maria Wells, Caroline Gil- 

Tiian, SaraU Joseplia Hale, Maria James, Jessie G. M'Cartee, 

Mrs. Gray, Kliza Follcn, Liouisa Jane Hall, Mrs« S^vift, 

Mrsa in> C» Kinney, Marguerite St« IJeon lioud, liuella J, 

Case, Elizabeth. Eogart, A. D. Woodbridge, KlizalietU 

Margaret Chandler, E^nima C. Emlinry, Sarali Helena 

WUitman, CyntUia Taggart, ElizabetU J» Eames, 

&Ct i&c« &c« 

The whole forming a beautiful specimen of the highly cultivated state oJ 

the arts in the United States, as regards the paper, topography, 

and binding in rich and various styles. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE PREFACE. 
One of the most striking characteristics of the present age 
is the number of female writers, especially in the department 
of belles-lettres. This is even more true of the United 
States, than of the old world ; and poetry, which is the lan- 
guage of the affections, has been freely employed among us 
to express the emotions of woman's heart. 

As the rare exotic, costly because of the distance from 
which it is brought, will often suffer in comparison of beauty 
and fragrance with the abundant wild flowers of our mea- 
dows and woodland slopes, so the reader of our present 
volume, if ruled by an honest taste, will discover in the effu- 
sions of our gifted countrywomen as much grace of form, 
and powerful sweetness of thought and feeling, as in the 
blossoms of woman's genius culled from other lands. 



LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH THE 

BRITISH FEMALE POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, 

BY 

GEO. ^Y. BETHUNE. 

AN ELEGANT VOLaME, WITH A HANDSOME VIGNETTE TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT OF THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 

The Literary contents of tliis work contain copious selections from 

tiie writings of 

Anne Boleyn, Countess of Arundel^ Q,ucen Ellzalieth, Duchess of 

JVovcastle^ Elizalietli Ciirtet> Mrs. Tiglic, Miss Hannah More^ 

Mrs« Ileinans. Lady Flora Ilnstingst Mrs« Amelia Opie, Miss 

Eliza Cook, Mrs« Southcy, ]>Iiss Lowe, Mrs.lVorton, Klizabcth 

Ba ISarrctt, Cathariitc Parr, Diary ^uccu of Scots, Countess 

of Pembroke, Lady Mary Wortley Montas;ue, Mrs. Ore" 

ville, Mrs. Barhauld, Joanua Baillie, Lictitia Klizabcth 

I>andon, Charlotte Clizahclh, Itlary Russell Mitford, 

Mrs. Coleridge, Itlary Howitt, Frances Kcmblc Butler, 

&.C. &c. &c. 

The whole forming a beautiful specimen of the highly cultivated state of 

the arts in the United States, as regards the paper, typography, 

and binding in rich and various styles. 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
In tlie deparlment of EiiRlisli pnttry, we liavc Ion? looked for a spirit cast in nature's finest, yet 
most elevatcil iiniiilil, possessml of Die most delicate anil cxiiuisite tjiste, the keenest perception 
of tlie innate true and beautifnl in poelrv, :is opposed to their opposiles, wlio could eive to ns a 
pure collection of the British Female I^octs; many of them among the choicest spirits that ever 
graced and adorneil humanity. The object of our search, in this distinct and important mission. 
IS before us; and we acknowledge at once in Dr. Uethuiie. the eifti'd poet, the eloquent divines 
and the liumVilc Christian, one who coinhines, in an eminent deRree. all the chararterislics nt)ovs 
alluded to. It raises the mind loftier, and makes it purified with the soul, lo doat in an almospliere 
of spiritual purity, lo peruse the elegant volume before us, chaste, rich, and beautiful, without and 
within. — Tlie Spectator. 



We do not remember to have seen any previous attempt to form n poetical bmiqiiet exclusively 
from Kardens planted liy female hands, and made fragrant and beautiful bv woman's ceiitlc culture. 
We know few men equally qualilied with the gifted Kditor of this volume for the tasteful and 
ludirious selection and adjustment of the various lluwers that are to delislil with their sweetness, 
soothe with tlieir soilness, and impart profit with their sciitMneiit. The voliiiue is enriched with 
Biosiaphical Sketches of some sixty poetesses, each sketch beiiic fidlowed with spicimeiis chanic- 
teri.stic of her style and powers of verse. In beauty of typoniaphv. and Kcnijral iiettiw} up, this 
Tolumo IS quite equal to the best issues of Us tasteful and cnterpiismg pubhsliers.— £pwcoj«i Ktxorder. 

It is handsomely embellished, and may be desci-ibed n.s n casket of ^ms. Dr. Bcthune, who it 
himself a poet of no nie.an genius, lias m this volume exhibited the most refined taste. The work 
may be regarded as a treasury of nearly all the best pieces of Iliiti.ih Female ViKlji.— Inquirer. 

This volume, which is far more suited for a holyday gift than many which are prepared expres-sW 
lor the purpose, contains extracts from all the most distmgiiislied Ijiglish IVmale Tocis, M-lected 
with the taste and jiid;,'me''l which we have a right lo cxpecl from the eminent divmc and highly 
gifted poet whose name auurus the title page. U is a nire odleclion of the richest ^ems.—iialtt- 
itore American. 

Dr. Bethuno has Bclecteil his mntcnals with exquisite taste, cnlling the fairest and sweetcct 
flowers from the extensive field cultivated by the British Female Poets. The brief Biographical 
Notices add much interest to the volume, and vasllv increase lis value. It is pleaunnt lo I.iid hard- 
working and close-thinking divines thus recrealing themselves, and contributing bv Iheir recrea- 
tions to the refinement of the age. Dr. Belhune has brought to his ta«k poetic enthusiasm, and ■ 
eady porceotion of the pure and beautiful. — N. Y. Cnmmrrnal. 



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